


Comfort Food

by youaremarvelous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Anxiety Disorder, Bisexual Viktor, Demisexual Yuuri, I hope I won't be the last to use that tag, M/M, Matchmaking, Modeling, POV Alternating, Slow Burn, Social Media, Viktor's receding hairline, YouTube, foreigners
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 11:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8487418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremarvelous/pseuds/youaremarvelous
Summary: Viktor is a wildly popular male model who is in crisis over aging out of the industry. He runs into Yuuri, an international university student struggling to make friends in the big city, and decides to make him his pet project. Unfortunately, matchmaking isn't as easy as he thought it would be—especially when he starts developing complicated feelings for his client.





	1. Chapter 1

**Yuuri**

 

Yuuri sat hunched in front of his laptop, staring glaze-eyed at his tourism and hospitality management homework, otherwise known as the shoddy, highly pixelated brochure he had made advertising his parents’ hot springs, Yu-Topia. He hadn’t quite figured out how to transform their blurry cell phone pictures of the place into the glossy, professional looking products his classmates were producing. He was still no closer to the answer after spending the afternoon skimming through his grossly overpriced textbook three consecutive times.

 

Yuuri sighed and slammed his book shut, tossing it on his bed. He closed his laptop and pushed it away, slumping back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. He would prefer to be soaking in the hot springs right now rather than filling his portfolio with disappointing print media about them. He closed his eyes and rubbed his cheeks, trying for the millionth time to conjure up the words and images that would properly convey the splendor of his home.

 

He thought of his parents—of how supportive they had been when he told them he wanted to move to America to pursue a Hospitality Management degree. Hasetsu had been losing tourism in recent years and the hot springs had suffered. Yuuri wanted to fix it—to figure out where they were lacking in their marketing and extend their customer appeal outside of Japan. It had all sounded so easy in theory, but—

 

Yuuri’s stomach growled loudly and he groaned, dropping his head to his desk and ruffling up his greasy hair with his hands. He blindly reached for the topmost desk drawer and pulled it open, taking out a small, well-worn blue spiral ring notebook. “Can’t think on an empty stomach,” he told the room, flipping the notebook to a new page. He reopened his laptop and pulled up google, running a quick search for a new recipe and jotting down the ingredients.

 

He felt lighter as he shoved his favorite cat-eared beanie over his bedhead. Food was something familiar in a culture of novelty. Since arriving in America, he’d gotten lost, gawked at, and cried in more public bathrooms than he’d like to admit. His English vocabulary—already quite strong before moving—was now at least a handful of words larger, bolstered by the insults flung at him when he took too long to count out his cash or stumbled through subway car interchanges.

 

Yuuri zipped up his blue windbreaker and slid his notebook into his pocket. It was odd being here. He was all too visible—spotlighted by his incompetence in everyday cultural norms, and yet simultaneously invisible—just another person in a throng of differing languages and heritages. Even by Japanese standards, he was quiet. In America, he might as well be mute. The bellowing voices and honking horns all but drowned him out. Yuuri was 23 years old but he felt like he was a baby again, only just learning how to navigate the world with insufficient knowledge and wobbly legs.

 

He stuffed his feet in his sneakers and exited his apartment, locking the door behind him before slipping the key in his pocket and putting in his earbuds. It was a happy coincidence that the Asian market was a block down from his home. The place was cramped, over-stocked, and often busy, but at least he recognized most of the products.

 

He shuffled down the street, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched—a defense from the cold and any unwanted social interactions. Yuuri spied his reflection in the glass when he reached for the door handle and quickly averted his eyes. His cheeks were rounder than before. His whole body had grown softer in the months since moving to America—due to a combined effort of bad genes and stress eating.

 

He grimaced and entered the store, hooking a basket onto his elbow and pulling his notepad from his pocket. Yuuri flipped to the appropriate page while making his way to the dried bonito flakes. He tossed a bag into his basket, studying his list again when he felt the presence of another person hovering near his side. He looked over—expecting it to be an illusion shaped from a random stack of items or a misplaced cart—and nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized the person was, in fact, very real and very close.

 

The stranger was tall and handsome, with bright blue eyes and face framing silver hair that only just brushed the edges of his burgundy cowl neck sweater. Yuuri couldn’t shake the feeling that he looked somewhat familiar, but then, it wasn’t exactly uncommon to see breathtakingly beautiful people in this city. He tried to glance up to steal another look, but the stranger locked eyes with him when he did and opened his mouth with a greeting before he had time to look away.

 

“Hello there,” the man called. Yuuri could hear his Russian accent through the clattering piano keys in his ear. “Do you speak English?”

 

Yuuri jerked his hand around the cord of his headphones and ripped his earbuds out. “I-I uh—I—” he stammered, shaking his head for emphasis.

 

The attractive stranger looked down at the swinging headphones—still pulsing with quiet classical music—back to Yuuri’s quickly reddening face. His features relaxed into a smile. “Is that Rachmaninoff?”

 

Yuuri just stared at him, mouth agape and eyebrows knit.

 

The stranger trailed his fingers down the headphone cord and lifted the earbuds in his hand. “The music,” he clarified, bringing them to his ear for a moment before settling them back into Yuuri’s shaking palm. “Piano Concerto no. 2. Quite sentimental, the second movement.”

 

Yuuri snapped his mouth shut and closed his fingers around his headphones, shoving them into his pocket with his phone.

 

The stranger’s pocket buzzed and he pulled his cell from his expensive looking coat. He read the screen and sighed, brushing his hair from his face. “Well, I guess I’ll have to find someone else to help me.” He looked at Yuuri and smiled again, his silver hair falling across the bridge of his slightly reddened nose.

 

Yuuri was feeling increasingly flustered. He opened his mouth and closed it again, searching for words in his anxiety-addled brain. “Sorry, I—“

 

The stranger brushed Yuuri’s bicep with the tips of his fingers, shaking his head. “Not to worry, I remember what it’s like to be new here.” He took his hand back, clenching his fingers together with a soft hum. “Well, I suppose I’ll be on my way then.” He waved and started to depart, his fine leather boots echoing softly on the scuffed tile floor. “And Happy Near Year!” He called over his shoulder before rounding down the next aisle and out of sight.

 

Yuuri stood there for a moment, staring down the space the stranger had previously occupied, absentmindedly rubbing his arm where he had been touched. His heart was beating a frenzied pace in his chest and he couldn’t quite place _why_. Being unexpectedly approached was never something he would classify a comfortable experience, but his reaction hadn’t been this extreme since the first month or two of adjusting to American life.

 

Yuuri shook his head and fished his headphones out of his pocket, placing them back in his ears. He was tense as he finished his shopping—nervous to run into the stranger again, yet weirdly disappointed when he didn’t. His heart couldn’t calm down. His limbs were charged with electricity, pulsating out from the spot on his bicep where he had been touched.

 

Even after walking back home and unloading his groceries, he couldn’t shake the feeling. He cooked his meal—a process that would normally soothe him—sighing and shaking his head every time the Russian stranger’s face would unwittingly interrupt his thoughts. Yuuri carried his steaming meal to his squat floor table. He had bigger things to worry about—like how he was going to pass next semester if he couldn’t get a proper handle on adobe design programs. He had been holed up in his room for pretty much the entirety of Christmas break. He probably couldn’t forget the stranger because it was the first meaningful human contact he had had in weeks.

 

Yuuri breathed deeply—depressed at the thought— and flicked on his camera. He settled himself at his table and waved a little with a hesitant smile. “Yoi Otoshi O! Happy New Year! In Japan, it is traditional to eat osechi, which is an assortment of foods considered to bring good luck.” Yuuri sat up on his knees and pointed the camera down at his food, biting his bottom lip as he waited for it to focus. “But, since it’s only New Year’s Eve and I’m in America, tonight I’m having my personal favorite dish, katsudon, or, pork cutlet bowl.” He gave a thumbs up and settled back onto the floor. “Itadakimasu.” He bowed slightly before picking up his chopsticks.

 

Yuuri placed a piece of pork in his mouth and chewed, humming gratefully as the oil slid across his tongue. “I hope you all have your resolutions in place for the New Year.” He picked up a clump of rice, pausing before putting it in his mouth. “If I had to list mine, I suppose it’d be to pass all my courses, lose ten pounds, and—“ he looked down as he considered the last item. “It would be nice to have someone to enjoy a meal with.” He admitted with an awkward laugh, shaking his head to fight back the blush warming his cheeks. “Not that I don’t enjoy doing this for all of you.” He recovered, continuing his meal.

 

He took a few more bites, eating silently, before clearing his throat. “Anyway. I saw the most interesting person at the market today.”

 

 **Viktor**  

 

Viktor folded his arms over his chest as he rode the elevator up to his modeling firm. He passed through the halls, nodding politely and smiling as he made his way to the conference room that served as a model congregation spot.

 

“Viktor,” Mila smiled when he entered. She was lounged back on a white couch, flipping through a magazine that she tossed to the coffee table. “Any luck on your hunt for multicultural New Year’s festivities?”

 

Viktor dropped his grocery bag on the table, ignoring her.

 

“Viktor?” Mila repeated, sitting up fully.

“Hmm?” Viktor looked up, blinking. “Sorry, I was thinking.”

 

“About what?”

 

“About _who_ ,” he corrected, tapping his cheek with his forefinger. “And I don’t know, I didn’t catch his name.”

 

“A director?” Mila suggested, leaning back in the cushions and crossing her arms over her chest. “Or maybe a photographer?” Viktor didn’t respond and she straightened back up, slapping her hands on the coffee table. “Don’t tell me it’s another model?” She pointed a finger at him, ready to start a lecture.

 

Viktor shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that.” He thumbed his bottom lip and sighed. “You know I’m taking a break from romance.”

 

Mila rolled her eyes and leaned an elbow on the armrest. “Who said anything about romance?”

 

“I simply don’t have time for it at the moment.” Viktor continued, ignoring her interjection.

 

Mila sighed and shook her head at the ceiling, cursing male models and their dramatics. “Ri-ight, and you don’t have the time for it because—?”

 

Viktor walked to the window, peering down at the bustling street below and weaving a hand through his hair. A strand loosed itself and became entangled between his fore and middle finger. “Because,” he closed his eyes and clenched the hair in his hand before whipping back around and revealing it to his fellow model. “I’m 27!”

 

Mila quirked an eyebrow and shrugged. “And you’re the most in-demand male model in our firm. Point?”

 

“Who knows how long that will last,” Viktor pressed, turning back to the window. “The next big thing is out there,” he told her, hovering his fingertips over the pristine glass. “And every day I’m nearing my expiration.”

 

“This isn’t, like, your reveal that you were diagnosed with terminal cancer or something, right?”

 

“Mila—“

 

“Because I’m not wearing waterproof mascara.”

 

“Mila!” His shoulders wilted and he tipped his chin up to the ceiling, resting his hand over his eyes. “You joke but you know what I’m talking about. Next week is never promised in this industry. Not even for me.”

 

“Look—“ Mila put her hands on her knees and stood, stretching her arms over her head before walking over to Viktor. “I’m not joking. You’re more knowledgeable than half the staff here, I’m sure they would hire you on in a heartbeat if you asked.” She grabbed Viktor by the arm and pulled him back to the couch. “Now stop looking at the window like you’re planning to jump from it.”

 

“But what if I don’t want to continue in this industry?”

 

Mila stepped back, one eyebrow raised to her hairline. “Don’t you?”

 

“I don’t know,” Viktor groaned, throwing his hands in the air. “That’s the problem. I don’t know what I want for the future. I hadn’t really thought about it till now!”

 

Mila grabbed his arm and pulled it down to his side. “Okay, okay.” She paced a couple steps away from him and placed a hand on her cocked hip. “So you don’t know. Neither do most people.”

 

Viktor massaged his temples. “But most people have had to figure it out by this age.”

 

“So what?” Mila whipped around on her heel, leveling him with a stare. “You’re a passionate person, Viktor. Just keep your eyes and ears open for every opportunity. You’ll know it when you see it, I bet.”

 

Viktor hummed and pressed his fist to his mouth. “I wish I had your optimism.”

 

Mila’s face warmed with a smile and she walked back to Viktor’s side. “Oh, cheer up, you old fart. Tomorrow starts a new year. We’ll get to meet the new models—they’ll inevitably grovel at your feet and beg for autographs and photos—“ Mila hooked an arm around Viktor’s shoulders and mimed taking a selfie—“you love that sort of thing.”

 

Viktor tilted his head and sighed. “That’s true.”

 

“So go home and get some beauty sleep, or whatever it is you do to be so freakishly good looking, and come back tomorrow in a better mood.” She elbowed him softly in the side. “You got it?”

 

“Yes, yes.” He laughed, pressing a palm against his cheek. “Join me for dinner?”

 

Mila shook her head and gave an impish grin. “Mm can’t. I have a date with a hockey player.”

 

Viktor’s eyebrows moved towards his hairline. “Again?”

 

Mila shrugged. “Sorry, babe. I guess got a thing for rugged men.”

 

“Right, I remember. The less teeth the better.”

 

Mila ran a hand down her face. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

 

Viktor flopped onto the couch. “Not any time soon, no.”

 

“Great,” she groaned, dropping her hands onto Viktor’s shoulders and squeezing. “Hey. You gonna be alright?”

 

Viktor reached up and patted her hand. “Yes, thanks solely to your counseling skills, I’m sure.”

 

Mila pinched Viktor’s cheek and winked. “You’ll take my compassion and you’ll like it.”

 

“Those hockey players don’t stand a chance against you.”

 

“Don’t I know it.” Mila brushed her hair from her shoulder. “I guess I should be going, have a good New Year’s Viktor. And you know, I’m only a call away.” She put a hand on the doorframe, winking before exiting.

 

Viktor laughed softly, smiling as he watched her go. “Happy New Year, Mila.”

 

**+**

 

Viktor pushed his apartment door open with his foot, juggling his keys around a bag of take-out for himself and an order of his poodle’s favorite homemade turkey dog chow.

 

“Makkachin!” He called when he entered, pushing his back against the door till it closed with a click. His dog's nails clicked across the concrete floors and he had just enough time to brace the bags in his arms before she jumped up on him, showering his face with sloppy, wet kisses. “It’s good to see you, too,” Viktor laughed, moving from the door to the kitchen.

 

He fed Makkachin first, patting her back as she happily scarfed down her meal, and then pulled out a plate for himself—carefully spooning steaming hot gnocchi to one side and laying out a bed of fresh greens on the other. He poured himself a glass of red wine—if he was going to eat take-out, he could at least pretend to be fancy about it.

 

Viktor didn’t eat alone often. Doing so just made him think of his family in Russia, all the lively meals he had missed, crowded around their small kitchen table, elbows bumping as they wrestled for the biggest portions. Viktor could never really stomach the loneliness of dinners in solitude, sitting alone in his sparsely decorated loft.

 

He eyed his laptop on the other side of the table and stood with a sigh, picking it up and bringing it over to his seat. He flipped it open and googled “lonely eating at home alone.” He clicked around on a few link before settling on an article detailing how eating alone was becoming a rising trend and, helpfully, how to manage the phenomenon if you were a more social eater. The article sited mukbangs, a South Korean trend of livestreaming one’s dinner.

 

Curiosity piqued, Viktor opened a new tab, pulled up YouTube, and searched “mukbang.” He leaned back in his chair, surprised at the number of results. Viktor didn’t really know where to start, so he filtered the videos by upload date in the past hour and clicked the most recent video.

 

Viktor hit the video to full screen and took a sip of his wine, tilting his head as the seconds ticked by, showing a tiny, seemingly empty apartment. The camera shook a little and a person came into frame, settling themselves at the table with a wave and a smile. “Yoi Otoshi O! Happy New Year!”

 

Viktor pushed his chair back in shock, the legs screeching noisily across his concrete floors. He recognized this person—Yuuri—if his YouTube account was to be believed. The coincidence was thrilling for reasons he couldn’t quite quantify. His heart thrummed in his ear and he had the overwhelming urge to call Mila and talk her ear off about the conceit of fate. It was only the barest scrap of self-control that kept him from doing so.

 

Instead, he pulled his chair back up to the table, leaning his head in his hand as he watched the ridiculously cute boy rattle off his New Year’s resolutions. Viktor rested his forefinger on his forehead, squinting his eyes in concentration as the boy looked down and admitted a desire to have someone to eat with, before recovering with a blush. Viktor huffed out a short laugh, this boy really was quite adorable, though he couldn’t exactly pinpoint why.

 

He eventually started eating his own meal, almost spitting a mouthful of gnocchi on his laptop screen when Yuuri mentioned having met a “handsome Russian person” at the market that day. Viktor brushed a hand through his hair, shaking his head. This was too much. He had to make contact. He had the overwhelming desire to meet this boy. 

 

Before he had time to question his choices, Viktor clicked on the comment box. “So you do speak English, huh?” He typed. He hit comment and waited—for what, he didn’t quite know. He had never been a big YouTube user—while he did have an account set up through his gmail, his profile picture was of Makkachin and he had no videos or other indicators of his identity.

 

His comment was likely to be ignored. Still, there was a rush of adrenaline in his body he couldn’t ignore. “I guess we’ll see, Makkachin,” he sighed, petting his dog’s head and closing the laptop.

 

Makkachin rested her head on his thigh, and Viktor slumped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, smiling a little. “Happy New Year,” he told his empty apartment. But his mind was somewhere else in the city—in a tiny apartment with a chubby-faced Japanese boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea popped into my head and I honestly couldn't not write it despite the fact that I have another multi-chap fic going (plus other non fanfiction related projects). But ya know, whatever, who needs free time, anyway. 
> 
> I never write alternating POV so this is a new experience for me, but it just kinda made sense when I was plotting things out. It's also kind of fun to write from two different perspectives. Also, while I am doing research, I'm not a model and my degree is in printmaking, not hospitality management, so I know basically zilch about these topics. This is fiction. Dis shit made up. And while the city is roughly based on NYC, it, too, is more inspired by NYC rather than technically taking place there. Think like Chicago and Gotham City. Tags and characters will be added as the story progresses. The rating is for later in the story. 
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you enjoy the first chapter! I do know how the story is going to play out but I'm not going to try to guess on the exact chapter count at this time because I tend to get long winded or change things around while writing. And like I say in all my fics, I am extraordinarily impatient when it comes to editing. Sorry. I usually come back a day or two after posting and read back through to see what I've missed. Hopefully there are no glaring mistakes in the meantime ^^; 
> 
> If you wanna yell at me about yoi (please do, I'm losing my shit over these damn skating gays), hmu on my tumblr youremarvelous. Thanks loves <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Yuuri**

 

Yuuri sat on his bed in the dark—wrapped in his comforter—his face illuminated by the phone he held gripped in both hands. He stared at his inbox and his most recent unopened email: “New comment on ‘Katsudon [Pork Cutlet Bowl] Mukbang | Eating Show! (´･(00)･｀).’”

 

Yuuri never got comments on his videos. He barely got over a hundred views, most of which he attributed to bots. He used his channel as an outlet more than anything, or at the very least as an excuse to talk to himself without feeling weird about it. The idea of anyone watching his stupid little videos, let alone _responding_ to them, was—in a word—terrifying.

 

Yuuri took a deep breath and clicked the email. A high-pitched screech worked its way from his throat before the page could fully load. He covered his eyes and flung the phone into his pillow, rocking back and forth with his teeth clenched into his bottom lip. A few minutes ticked by—interrupted only by the sound of his heavy breathing—before he urged himself forward, peering over his phone with his arms pulled to his chest. He squinted at the screen:

 

 

**Viktor Nikiforov commented on your video**

Katsudon [Pork Cutlet Bowl] Mukbang | Eating Show! (´･(00)･｀)

 

**Viktor Nikiforov**

So you do speak English, huh?

 

 

Yuuri’s body slowly unwound itself, his eyebrows knitting together with a slight frown. He knew flaming was a thing, but he didn’t quite understand how this qualified. The comment read like a continuation of a conversation, but as far as Yuuri could recall, he didn’t know anyone named ‘Viktor.’ Nor did he remember any recent discussions about his prowess for the English language, unless the angry, unquestionably racist man on the city bus counted. That was really more xenophobic tirade than conversation, though, so—back to square one.

 

Yuuri pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. He clicked on the username, but the account history was completely blank. Puzzled, Yuuri opened up Google and typed in the name. The tab loaded and Yuuri’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. He pushed his laptop back and collapsed to the side, his brain short-circuiting from a combination of embarrassment and disbelief.

 

There was no way. There was just no way.

 

He had officially lost it.

 

It was a week past Christmas but Yuuri had turned full-on Ebenezer because this had to be a hallucination brought on by a bit of bad food. ‘ _There’s more of mold than of model about you_ ,’ his brain supplied unhelpfully. While it _was_ in the realm of possibility that the endless series of humiliating experiences he called his life would find him making a fool of himself in front of world-renowned model Viktor Nikiforov, it was utterly impossible that said model would not only watch a YouTube video of his (and a mukbang of all things, _god_ ), but actually take the time out of his undoubtedly busy schedule to comment.

 

Yuuri covered his head with both hands, squirming in real physical discomfort from the intensity of his mortification. He imagined Viktor in his decked out penthouse apartment, curled up in Egyptian cotton sheets with another model or two on his arm, watching as some chubby, plain-looking Japanese boy ate fatty katsudon and rambled about wanting to lose weight and find a partner.

 

Yuuri groaned and shook his head, twisting his feet into his comforter. It was all too much. He had to delete his channel. He had to drop out of school and leave America and possibly change his identity. Only then would he maybe, _maybe_ be able to outrun his mortification.

 

He was deep in the throes of self-loathing when his phone buzzed with another email. This time he opened it without hesitation, swiping the screen with a world-weariness that belied his age. The worst had already occurred, so what did he have to lose?

 

The message wasn’t from YouTube like he had expected. Instead, it was a request from his sister, asking him to be available to FaceTime at 10pm his time.

 

Yuuri pressed his nails into his hairline, the dulling edges of his anxiety flaring anew. This timing was too convenient. Somehow, his parents must have caught wind of his shame. It was probably Yuko’s kids that had filled them in. Those girls were freakishly skilled at unearthing the most embarrassing details of his online life if their many references to his (now deleted) OkCupid account were anything to go by.

 

Yuuri had never been a model son. He was sensitive and anxious and often selfish. His parents had been nothing but patient and loving up to this point, but even they must have their limit. He couldn’t find it in his heart to blame them if this particular event was the last straw that provoked a one-way ticket to estrangement.

 

It was farfetched, but so was having top model Viktor Nikiforov commenting on his stupid, insignificant, second-rate YouTube videos. Yuuri was done discounting any ill-fated event from the realm of possibility. He wondered if he should prostrate himself to his family now through text or wait to do it via webcam.

 

Yuuri typed a response to Mari, sighing as he pressed send. He glanced up at the time, wondering if forty minutes was long enough to change his number, before relenting with a sigh and lying back on his bed. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes—prostrate and heavy-limbed—head swirling with silky silver hair and the clashing keys of Russian classical composers.

 

+

 

**Viktor**

 

“Mila, he hasn’t responded.” Viktor strode into the firm’s lounge, dropping a bag of muffins on the coffee table.

 

Mila was sitting on the couch, a blonde teenaged boy kneeling on the floor between her legs while she struggled to fix his hair into a crown braid. “Nice to see you, too, Viktor.” She mumbled through the bobby pins in her teeth.

 

Viktor nodded and gave a distracted wave, pulling his phone from his pocket and swiping down to refresh his email.

 

The blonde looked up at Viktor. “Who hasn’t responded?” He asked, yelping when Mila wrenched his head back down by his hair.

 

“Some guy on YouTube that Viktor’s stalking.” She explained, throwing up her hands in frustration when a gold lock of hair slipped out of her fingers and unraveled the braid.

 

“Yuuri.” Viktor was quick to correct. “And I’m not stalking him.”

 

“What?” The blonde asked, brushing his fingers through his hair to straighten it.

 

“No, no, not _you_ ,” Viktor sighed, flopping onto a pristine white chaise. “I mean that’s his name—Yuuri.”

 

The young model scowled and stood, brushing off his knees. “We have the same name?”

 

Viktor shrugged and swiped down on his phone. “You are very different, though.”

 

Mila rolled her eyes, shaking her head at the ceiling. “You would know, seeing as you’ve exchanged, what—ten words with the guy?”

 

“Connection isn’t measurable by word count,” Viktor countered. “But it was _at least_ twenty. Bare minimum.”

 

Yuri sat on the couch next to Mila and picked up the bag of muffins, peering inside. “So what are you, _gay_?”

 

“Bi, actually.” Viktor corrected with an ease that implied years of compulsory clarification. “But this isn’t about romance.”

 

“You keep saying that.” Mila snatched the bag out of Yuri’s hand and studied the label. “So what _is_ it about, exactly?”

 

Viktor raised a hand in the air, fingers poised like an actor in a Shakespeare play. “I keep telling you, woman. Fate!”

 

“So fate brought you all the way down to Castle Coffee? They’re on the west side of the city, Viktor. It’s like thirty minutes out of your way!”

 

“They have the best muffins in town!”

 

“Hardly.” Mila pulled a blueberry muffin from the bag and sniffed it. “They _are_ located near the Asian market, however,” she added, handing the bag back to Yuri.

 

“Thank you, Google Maps. I fail to see your point.”

 

“My point _is_ —” Mila peeled down the muffin paper and pinched off a piece from the top, popping it into her mouth—“you don’t know this guy. Not really. What exactly do you plan to do with him if he _does_ respond to you?”

 

Viktor pressed his lips together, leaning his head back into the chaise, his fingers interlaced over his stomach.

 

Mila watched him, chewing thoughtfully. “You don’t know,” she accused after swallowing.

 

“I have a vague idea.”

 

“Viktor,” Mila sighed, tilting her head with a sideways smile. “I love you, you know? I’m just—worried.”

 

“And I’m telling you there is nothing to be worried about.”

 

Mila crossed her legs, leaning her elbow against the armrest. “You spent all of yesterday with your eyes glued to your phone.”

 

“I was watching his videos.”

 

“During work hours?”

 

Viktor brushed his hair away from his face. “I just want to get to know him.”

 

“And there were new models here yesterday that wanted to get to know _you_.” Mila gestured a hand at him. “Who do you think has to run interference when the rumor mill starts painting Viktor Nikiforov as a cold, uncaring model with an attitude problem?”

 

Viktor pressed his index finger to his cheek in thought. “Mm…Yakov?”

 

Mila rolled her eyes. “Obviously. But it’s still not okay. This guy—“

 

“Yuuri,” Viktor corrected.

 

Mila dropped her hand on her forehead with an exasperated sigh. “ _Yuuri_ —“ she corrected sharply—“isn’t going anywhere, but your future bookings might if people start worrying you’re gonna be a diva to work with.” She slapped her hand on her knee. “And besides all of that, you’re just kind of acting like a jerk!”

 

Viktor nodded, eyes wide.

 

Mila shrugged, shaking her head slightly. “Anyway. Yuri has his first shoot today,” she told him, redirecting the conversation. “Catalog shoot for Macy’s. You gonna be there to cheer him through it?”

 

Yuri scoffed from behind her. “Not like I’ll need it.”

 

Mila flipped her head around to him, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. “As if you haven’t attached yourself to my hip because you want him to coach you.”

 

Viktor ignored them, pulling out his phone again to refresh his email. “Of course, I wouldn’t miss it.”

 

Mila turned back to Viktor. “Is that a promise?” Viktor opened his mouth to reply, but Mila held up her finger to stop him. “Like a _real_ promise, not just one you make to placate me.”

 

“When have I ever done that?”

 

“Viktor,” Mila warned, her arm crossed testily across her chest.

 

Viktor smiled and stood, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “I never break the promises I remember,” he told her, patting Yuri on the shoulder on his way out of the room.

 

Yuri turned his nose into his collar to try to hide his blush and Mila rolled her eyes to the ceiling at the sight of it. “How convenient.” She sighed before taking a big bite of muffin.

 

+

 

**Yuuri**

 

Yuuri sat at his desk, his head cradled in his folded arms as he stared at the cold, overcast winter morning. The gentle sound of Schumann’s Träumerei op. 15 no. 7 drifted from his laptop speakers, his tourism and hospitality management homework long abandoned at the foot of his bed. Yuuri sighed heavily and scrubbed at his eyes. His glasses settled askew across his face, but he didn’t bother to fix them.

 

His childhood dog had passed. That was what his family had wanted to tell him. In some ways, Yuuri wished his fears of disownment had been right. He’d sacrifice his place in the family if it meant Vicchan could live. He’d give up most things if it meant he could snuggle with his beloved pet one last time.

 

Yuuri’s eyes watered again, his heart aching from the thought of his dog dying without having seen him for five years. Vicchan probably thought he’d been abandoned. Perhaps the vet was wrong and instead of liver failure, it was depression that had caused his demise.

 

Yuuri could relate. He could easily understand how this exhaustive pain could translate into death.

 

He lifted his head from his desk and picked up a framed photo of himself as a child: he was around 12 in the picture and smiling so huge his cheeks looked like two round pork buns. He was holding his dog to his side, Vicchan almost looked to be smiling himself: his tongue lolled out of his mouth, his curly brown hair splayed against the curve of Yuuri’s blushing cheek. Yuuri groaned and laid the picture down, turning his head to the ceiling to keep his tears from falling.

 

It was all becoming too much. His degree had already taken him a full year longer to obtain than projected. His parents never complained about sending him money for his rent and bills, but he knew the financial strain had to be significant. And at this point, Yuuri didn’t even know if his learned skills were strong enough to upturn Yu-Topia’s downfall. He was isolated and anxious and lonely and missing out on so much at home, and for what?

 

Yuuri sighed and looked back at his camera, lips drooping into a wistful frown. At times like this, he’d typically resort to his vlog to work out his emotions in what felt like a relatively safe space. It was the cruelest irony that only yesterday it had been transformed into yet another source of anxiety on his mile long list—situated somewhere between giving presentations and talking to strangers.

 

There was no way he could make a video now. Especially not with the high possibility of it involving copious amounts of ugly crying. Viktor had already been made privy to the process of things go into his body, Yuuri really didn’t need the added mortification of having him witness the reverse.

 

Yuuri’s stomach growled and he turned back around, thumping his forehead against his desk with a groan. He sat there for a moment, ruffling his hair with his fingers, steeling himself against the overwhelming pressure in his chest. He sat back up abruptly, sniffing hard, and jumping out of his chair to get dressed.

 

Who cared about Viktor Nikiforov? The man hadn’t left him another message. It had probably been a fake account to begin with—just someone hearing his description of the Russian man at the market and assuming the top model’s identity to troll him. Even if by some completely random happenstance it _was_ Viktor, the chance of him reaching out again or bothering to watch another video was slim.

 

Yuuri zipped up his coat, grabbing his small spiral ring notebook from his desk drawer and shoving it in his pocket. He needed this right now. He needed his outlet, Viktor Nikiforov be damned. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to being made a fool. Even in Japan, he had suffered relentless bullying. Living in America had assured him that some things transcend cultural differences.

 

He sniffed back some new tears and shoved his feet in his shoes, nearly stumbling out his door when he opened it. He forgot his headphones, but he didn’t turn around for them. The bitter winter winds burned across his fresh tear tracks and the pensive sounds of Schumann echoed in his mind, chilling him from the inside out.

 

+

 

**Viktor**

 

“Yuri!” Yakov fussed, his cheeks red and arms flailing as he hovered over the young model. “Your looks and your character don’t match up! I gave you source images to study. How many times do I have to tell you that your features are too delicate for that kind of masculine posing?”

 

Yuri took a sip from his water bottle. “They liked my work, didn’t they?”

 

“Don’t let the praise of one photographer get to your head! You’re lucky they were flexible—“

 

“Wonderful,” Viktor interrupted, clapping softly as he walked towards the pair. “It’s rare to see such confidence in a young model.” He stepped next to the older manager, dropping a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

 

Yakov shrugged Viktor’s hand off, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “ _You_!” He roared. “Don’t you encourage him just because his disobedience reminds you of yourself!”

 

Viktor smiled warmly, completely unaffected. “I’m simply acknowledging talent when I see it.”

 

Mila stepped up to the group, checking the time on her phone. “Yakov, don’t you have a fitness shoot with Georgi in five?”

 

Yakov glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath. “Don’t think you’re getting out of a lecture!” He warned Yuri before racing out of the room.

 

Yuri pulled a tissue out of a nearby tissue box and blew his nose. “What a windbag.”

 

“A windbag that has produced many famous models.” Mila reminded, patting the boy on the head. “Which is why you signed on to this agency to begin with. Or am I wrong?”

 

Viktor waved a dismissive hand in the air before Yuri had time to answer. “Of course you’re not, but a little rebellion is a good thing. Complacency is the enemy of greatness, after all.”

 

“Not everyone has the charisma to get away with such bad behavior.” Mila warned, ruffling Yuri’s hair until the boy swatted her hand away.

 

Viktor smiled warmly. “You flatter me.”

 

“That wasn’t a compliment.” Mila placed her hand on her cocked hip. “Anyway—“ she checked the time on her phone again—“it’s getting late, shall we order dinner in?”

 

“No date tonight?” Yuri sneered.

 

Mila shrugged and smiled. “Eh, I dumped the guy. He was getting too clingy.”

 

“And you accuse me of being a heartbreaker.”

 

“If the name fits.” Mila winked, pulling Yuri up by the arm. “Newbie picks dinner and Viktor pays.”

 

Yuri blushed and Viktor laughed, shaking his head as he followed the two out of the building.

 

+

 

The group sat around the table in the model’s lounge, chatting happily over green chicken curry when Viktor’s pocket buzzed. He paused in his story of the time he ripped the back seam of a two thousand dollar designer button up and fished his phone out, tapping to pull up his email. His eyes widened when he saw the subject:

 

 

 **Yuuri Katsuki: “Oden [Japanese Hot Pot] Mukbang | Eating Sh…** -Yuuri Ka **Jan 2**

 

He almost dropped his phone in his haste to open the link. “Mila,” he shouted, turning the phone on its side as the video loaded. “He posted a new video!”

 

“Oh, god,” Mila groaned, pushing her chair back from the table to join Viktor’s side. Yuri followed her—the three hovering over the phone, waiting for the opening advertisement to end.

 

The video opened to the familiar sight of a small apartment, empty aside from a bed draped in a plain tan comforter and a steaming bowl atop a round, short table.

 

“Is that it?” Yuri asked incredulously.

 

Viktor shushed him just as the camera shook and Yuuri came into view from the side, carefully lowering himself behind his squat table. Viktor knitted his eyebrows at the screen—the resolution wasn’t great, and his phone offered him less detail than his laptop, but he swore Yuuri’s eyes looked puffy and red. The sight of it made his heart lurch and he almost paused the video right then, the nakedness of Yuuri’s pain generating an unexpected surge of protectiveness in him.

 

“Is he alright?” Mila asked, her forearm resting on Viktor’s shoulder as she peered into the screen.

 

“I don’t know,” Viktor admitted honestly, just as Yuuri’s small voice sounded from the phone’s speakers.

 

“Konnichiwa. Hello. Today—“ Yuuri paused and took a deep breath, biting his lower lip as he stared down at his meal. “T-today I’m going to be having oden, a popular Japanese winter dish consisting of ingredients simmered in a soy sauce based broth.” He picked up his chopsticks and swirled them around the bowl, fogging his glasses from the steam.

 

The Yuuri in the video pulled off his glasses, yanking his shirt up to wipe the lenses. He choked on a cough, his shoulders jumping, and Viktor swore he could see a tear fall off the end of his nose.

 

Yuri’s lip curled in disgust. “ _This_ fatty is the guy you’re stalking?”

 

Viktor did shut off the video then, placing his phone face down on the table.

 

Mila straightened up, clearing her throat. “So—uh—crying and eating…is this, like…a kink or—"

 

Viktor shook his head, his silver hair falling across one eye. “No, no. None of his other videos are like this.”

 

“Just how many have you watched?” Mila asked, an eyebrow quirking towards her hairline.

 

“He doesn’t have that many.”

 

Mila sighed and sat back in her seat. “So that means all.”

 

“What should I do?” Viktor fretted, his fingertips resting over the back of his phone.

 

Mila placed her elbow on the table, resting her head in her hand. “You _should_ leave well enough alone. Of course, I know you won’t.”

 

“Send him a hanky,” Yuri supplied unhelpfully.

 

Viktor sighed sadly and picked up his phone, walking it over to the full-length window. He reopened the Internet, clicking on Yuuri’s username and thumbing over to his private messages. Mila and Yuri talked quietly amongst themselves as he typed out his message. Viktor pinched his mouth into a tight line and pressed send—hugging the phone to his chest, wishing that somehow the warmth of his feelings would spark a sense of hope in their recipient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get this chapter out sooner, but this past week has been a whirlwind of emotions. Thank you all for being patient with me and thank you so so so much for your kind response. Your comments are fuel to keep me motivated and I am so appreciative of them. 
> 
> As always, sorry for any mistakes I've missed. I'll be around to edit it with fresh eyes in the coming days. And if you want to yell at me about yoi, hmu at my tumblr youremarvelous. Thanks loves <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Yuuri**

 

Yuuri groaned and looked at the time on his phone. A full body shiver clawed its way up his spine and he wondered for the hundredth time why he’d decided to leave the relatively safe confines of his apartment to meet up with a stranger. He tucked his nose into his scarf and picked up his pace when a few unforecasted snowflakes floated down from the sky and affixed themselves to his eyelashes.

 

It was way too cold to be out at a quarter till 7 on a weekday morning, but ‘Viktor Nikiforov’ had asked to meet him there and—for reasons Yuuri was still examining—he had agreed. Safety wise, the risk wasn’t huge. Despite the early hour, Castle Coffee was always crawling with customers trying to get a boost of artificial energy before their long work days commenced. Still, there was something unnerving about Viktor’s—if it really _was_ Viktor—interest in him.

 

His message had seemed legitimate, though. Yuuri had re-read it multiple times before responding, even logging into his account to delete the message in a fit of resolve, only to find himself pouring over the words again with trembling fingers and renewed tears.

 

It hadn’t even been particularly heartfelt, though by now, Yuuri had it memorized by heart:

 

 

 

**Viktor Nikiforov**

Yuuri (is that your name?), it’s Viktor. I know we’ve only met briefly, but I’d like to have the chance to know you better. This city is heavily populated, and yet we found each other in it. That has to be more than a coincidence, don't you think? If you agree, please reply.

 

 

 

It was so easy to feel alone in this city. On a normal day, Yuuri felt suffocated by the unrelenting waves of bodies—he bumped shoulders and caught eyes and brushed hands with strangers on a regular basis, but these moments often went completely unacknowledged.

 

In many ways, he had become accustomed to the isolation. He didn’t trust people with the most vulnerable parts of himself. He never really had, but even less so after five years of disappointments in America. He was a dull star in a galaxy of brightly shining constellations, but at least he was safe.

 

Yuuri stopped in front of the coffee shop and swallowed thickly. He was okay with being unnoticed. He was okay with being unimportant. So why, then, was he standing down his reflection in a door that harbored the threshold to an uncertain future.

 

It was too late to examine his motives. Yuuri reached up with a slightly shaking hand, scrunched his eyes closed, and sucked in a breath before pushing his way into the building. The quiet vacuum of the early morning sidewalk erupted into a choking cacophony of loud voices and crying babies. Yuuri opened his eyes. Someone pushed past him to leave and he muttered an apology and stumbled to the side, grasping his fingers into the slick fabric of his windbreaker pockets. He turned his head this way and that, but he didn’t see any tall, silver-haired Russians.

 

‘ _This isn’t surprising_ ,’ he told his sinking heart. ‘ _It was a prank. It doesn’t matter. No one has to know you showed up_.’ His throat felt tight and it frustrated him. What had he expected—for Viktor to sweep him off his feet and change the personality flaws that 7,000 miles and years of self-loathing hadn’t? The thought was absurd, and yet here he was choking back tears.

 

Yuuri steeled himself, sniffing hard and shaking his head. He trudged to the line, figuring he might as well get a sickeningly sweet seasonal latte out of this whole ordeal. He trudged to a small corner table when he had received his drink—briefly wondering if he should document it for his Instagram before sighing and taking a sip. He absently licked at the foam collected on his top lip, watching snowflakes float lazily to the sidewalk with his head propped in his hand.

 

“Yuuri?” A voice sounded at his back.

 

Yuuri straightened, eyebrows knitting at the reflection of the person behind him. His hand dropped to the table—narrowly missing upturning his drink—and he spun around in his seat, eyes wide.

 

“It’s Yuuri, right?” The man, _Viktor_ —Yuuri now knew with complete certainty— held a hand out. His nose was dusted with pink from the cold and his hair was loosely tucked behind his ear—disheveled from the wind, but somehow attractively so. Everything about the man exuded grace and charisma, from the clean lines of his black woolen coat to the tips of his fine leather gloves. Yuuri was glad he could no longer see them reflected together in the window. He had never possessed an abundance of self-confidence, but next to Viktor, he felt especially inadequate.

 

Yuuri stared openly at Viktor’s hand, unsure if he should shake it. “I, uh—“ He stammered. His mind scrambled to draw up something more substantial, but his throat had gone completely dry and his heart fluttered a frenzied pace in his chest.

 

Viktor appeared nonplussed, seemingly accustomed to such fanfare. He smiled and patted Yuuri’s hand. “I’m going to get a coffee, save my seat?”

 

Yuuri stared at Viktor’s hand over his, then blinked twice and stuttered in a breath. “Y-yes!” He replied, a little louder than he had intended.

 

Viktor only laughed, his silver hair bouncing against his high cheekbones. Yuuri’s cheeks were on fire when Viktor left to join the line. He checked his reflection in the stainless steel napkin holder to make sure his face wasn’t as red as it felt. He collapsed back in his seat—satisfied that he hadn’t reached full-on tomato status—and tried to collect himself.

 

He ran a weary hand down his face and tried to covertly turn his head to watch Viktor. He found that he wasn’t alone. Strangers were staring at the man, wide-eyed and whispering behind hands, flashing secret photos with their phones. A girl was holding her hands over her mouth, shaking her head vigorously as her friends tried to push her towards the vicinity of the older model. Yuuri wasn’t even the subject of their adoration and he was overwhelmed. He curled his nails into his knees, head spinning with the urge to push the girls away—to push everyone away and let him and Viktor breathe.

 

“Yuuri?”

 

Yuuri looked up, releasing the bottom lip he had unwittingly clamped between his teeth. He blinked hard as Viktor pulled the chair out from the table across from him and sat, blowing shallow ripples into the surface of his steaming coffee.

 

“I suppose I should formally introduce myself.” Viktor smiled and sat his coffee down, reaching both hands out and clasping Yuuri’s right hand between them. Yuuri only barely managed not to push himself from the table and bolt. He distracted himself by concentrating on controlling his breathing—three seconds for the inhale, exhaling slowly through tight lips—and desperately willed his fingers not to shake or his palm to sweat. “I’m Viktor Nikiforov. So pleased to officially meet you.”

 

Yuuri wiggled his hand out of Viktor’s grasp, nodding hesitantly and clearing his throat. “Katsuki Yu—I mean, Yuuri Katsuki.” He managed, curling his newly freed fingers around his warm drink.

 

“So it’s not a fake name then.” Viktor mused, taking a sip of his drink.

 

“Ah—“ Yuuri stared into his lap, scared to make eye contact—“no. I—I didn’t imagine anyone would watch my videos, so I didn’t see the point in hiding my identity.”

 

Viktor knitted his eyebrows at him, glossy lips pushed out into a slight pout. “Hm? Why post them, then, if you expect no one to watch?”

 

Yuuri shrugged and pushed his glasses up his nose. He stared daggers into the table, memorizing the patterns in the wood grain.

 

Viktor hummed and took another sip of his drink. “Well, we can work on that,” he mused.

 

Yuuri wringed his hands together in his lap and finally lifted his head to meet Viktor’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I just…before we go any further”—he mentally cringed a the slight tremor in his voice—“I was wondering why—“

 

“How long have you been living here, Yuuri?” Viktor interrupted, leaning his elbow on the table.

 

Yuuri’s mouth hung open, but he closed it with a snap and cleared his throat. “F-five years.”

 

“And your age?”

 

“Twenty three.”

 

“Oh?” Viktor put his coffee down, blinking. “I’m surprised, you look quite a bit younger.” He leaned towards Yuuri, hovering with their noses only inches apart. “Perhaps it’s those round cheeks,” he concluded.

 

Yuuri swore he could feel the warmth of Viktor’s breath on his face. He felt sweat gathering on his temples. He wasn’t even sure if Viktor’s comment was meant as an insult or a mere observation, so he shrugged one shoulder and laughed hesitantly.

 

“It’d be a shame to see them go, but it’d probably be best if you improved your health before seeking a romantic partner.” Viktor sat back and folded his fingers under his chin in thought. “Or your endurance, at the very least.”

 

Yuuri nearly spat out his coffee. He snatched a napkin from the dispenser, choking into it with deep, sputtering coughs. “I’m sorry?” He croaked when he managed to get his lungs under control.

 

“Yuuri—“ Viktor smiled widely, his blue eyes sparkling unnaturally bright. “I want to know everything about you.” He reached across the table and took Yuuri’s hand, pulling him forward by his arm so he could hook a soft finger under his chin. “Because I’ve decided I’m going to be your coach.”

 

“My—“ Yuuri repeated quietly, trying to make sense of things in his brain—“coach?”

 

“Yes,” Viktor trailed his fingers down the side of Yuuri’s baby soft cheek before releasing his grip. “A life coach of sorts,” he confirmed. “Passing classes, losing weight, finding a lover,” he ticked all the resolutions off on his still-gloved fingers—“these things are all achievable, Yuuri. And _I_ want to be the one to help you achieve them.” Viktor tilted his head with a confident wink.

 

Yuuri’s eyes grew dry from how wide they were. His eyebrows knitted together in horror and he pressed his hand against his heaving chest. “I don’t…I…“

 

Viktor’s pocket buzzed and he held up a finger to quiet his student before pulling out his phone to check the message. His eyes skimmed the screen and he cursed quietly in Russian, rubbing his temples in exasperation. He slid his phone back in his pocket, breathing deeply before smoothing his face back into the cool, confident mask with which he regarded his fans. “I’m afraid I’ll have to be leaving soon,” he said. “ Before I go, is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

 

It would more accurate to ask Yuuri what questions he _didn’t_ have. His subconscious seemed to feel otherwise, however. It was with a considerable amount of shock that he found his mouth moving of its own accord. “The dog—“

 

“Hmm?” Viktor tilted his head.

 

“In your profile picture—“

 

“Oh.” Viktor took out his phone again and opened his photos, pulling up a picture of the large standard poodle. “My dear Makkachin.”

 

Yuuri peered at the image. The dog—Makkachin—was lying on a black leather couch, nestled and asleep between her owner’s long legs. “So, she’s yours?” He asked, not taking his eyes off the screen.

 

Viktor chuckled softly. “I certainly hope so. Are you a dog lover, Yuuri?”

 

Yuuri stuttered on a breath and nodded. “I have—had—a poodle. At home, I mean…in Japan.” He hesitated, turning his eyes to his lap.

 

There was a story there, Viktor knew. You didn’t spend as much time modeling as he did without recognizing body language, but he didn’t press the issue. “Well, Yuuri, you’re welcome to join Makkachin and I on our morning run. We arrive at the park at six am on the dot, Tuesday through Saturday.”

 

“Six am?”

 

“Can I expect to see you there?”

 

Yuuri hesitated. This was it. This was his opportunity to either dive into an unknown future or slink back to his tiny apartment—lonely and bleak but familiar—safe. He steeled himself and nodded, mentally lauding himself for his bravery. “Okay.” He said finally, determinately clenching his hands into fists, and for the first time in a while, he felt like maybe it really would be.

 

+

The next morning brought with it a surprise snowstorm. Or maybe it wasn’t a surprise. Yuuri’s mind had been in too much of a tizzy to worry about things like weather reports.

 

He stood in front of his small, frosted over window, his fingertips pressed against the cold glass. There had to be at least a foot of snow. No one in their right mind would trek out in this kind of weather, but—judging from his actions thus far—that didn’t necessarily exclude Viktor.

 

Yuuri sighed deeply and went about bundling himself in layers of sweaters and socks. He wished he had a more immediate form of communication with the model so he could retire back to his bed and continue pretending like the events of the past few days were the machinations of a bad dream.

 

Unfortunately, Viktor had left in a hurry the day before, and no phone numbers had been exchanged. ‘ _Not that I want his number_ ,’ Yuuri told himself as he trudged through the abandoned sidewalks to the park. He didn’t know what he’d do with it even if he had it. Texting the man—initiating contact in general— seemed far too intimidating to consider.

 

Still, after nearly an hour of standing in pouring snow, Yuuri thought maybe he would've been able to muster the courage to do it. He stomped his feet on the hard packed dirt, trying to regain the feeling in his feet. He knew he should turn back soon—his frame trembled uncontrollably and he could no longer feel his face or the tips of his fingers and toes. He hugged his arms tightly across his chest—his limbs rigid and stiff from the inexhaustible cold—and lifted his gloves to his face to blow warm air into his palms. Roaring winds crashed against his body in waves and his breath did little to combat them.

 

Yuuri’s face was stinging. He touched a fingertip to his bottom lip, pulling his glove back to find the cream colored cotton dotted with blood. ‘ _Chapped lips_ ,’ he thought and took his phone from his duffle coat to check the time. The phone wouldn’t even turn on—the battery most likely drained sooner than usual due to the freezing temperatures. Yuuri slipped the cell back into his pocket, finally convinced that this was his sign from the universe to return home.

 

The park was still eerily empty when he left. Only Yuuri’s shuffling footsteps and the rustling tree branches disturbed the silence. He had just passed through the iron gate to the street when a faint voice floated by his throbbing ears, almost drowned out by the wind.

 

“Yuuri!”

 

He stopped. Unless the wind had somehow gained the power of articulation, there must be someone calling after him. Yuuri whipped around, turning his head in all directions, before finally spotting a body running towards him through the snow.

 

Viktor reached out a hand as though to grab him when he came fully into view. He had a navy blue tote bag hanging from the crook of his elbow and a steaming drink in his hand. “How long have you been out here?” Viktor placed his gloved hand—warm from the drink—on Yuuri’s cheek. Yuuri might’ve blushed if the blood wasn’t frozen in his veins.

 

“N-not long.” He stammered, but the tightness of his lips and the constant quaking of his frame exposed his lie.

 

Viktor removed his scarf from his neck and wrapped it around Yuuri’s shoulders. He grabbed Yuuri by the wrist and pulled him behind him. “Come, I don’t live far from here. We’re going to get you warmed up.”

 

Yuuri tried to sputter out an argument but talking and walking required more coordination than his half-frozen body could currently muster. He opened his mouth to speak and promptly tripped over his own feet, crashing into Viktor’s back and making his coffee splatter across the sidewalk.

 

Viktor didn’t seem to care about his drink or the droplets of dark liquid staining the hem of his gray slacks. He turned around and gripped Yuuri by the biceps. “Are you okay?” He asked, eyebrows knitted with what looked to be concern.

 

Yuuri only nodded. Speaking was too difficult and he didn’t yet trust his voice, but it seemed to be enough for Viktor. He sighed lightly—his warm breath visible in the frigid air—and wrapped an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, guiding him through the storm at a slower clip.

 

+

 

“I’m so sorry,” Viktor apologized for the tenth time when they stepped into his loft apartment. “I really didn’t think you’d try to meet me in this weather.”

 

Yuuri didn’t respond. He was standing in the doorway, unsure if he should remove his shoes or not.

 

“Come on,” Viktor waved him over to his couch. “I’ll get a fire started.”

 

Yuuri toed off his shoes—years of ingrained manners telling him not to march his dirty soles across Viktor’s fluffy white rug—and walked stiffly to the couch. The sound of clacking nails across the concrete floor made him pause.

 

Viktor was crouched in front of his freestanding fireplace, lighting the pilot light. “Oh yes, you wanted to meet Makkachin, right?” A roaring flame suddenly sparked to life—replacing the stark white light of the living room with a warm glow. Viktor stood, satisfied, and started to remove his coat.

 

The dog came into view just as her name was spoken and Yuuri crouched down on one knee, pulling off his gloves and shoving them in his pocket so he could hold out a hand for her to sniff. Makkachin wasn’t interested—she launched herself at him, making him fall backwards beneath her weight. A giggle worked its way out of Yuuri’s throat when she snuffed her cold nose into his hair, knocking his glasses off his face and licking his cheeks till they were warm and wet.

 

“She likes you,” Viktor mused, laughing a little at the pair before pulling Makkachin back by her collar.

 

Yuuri sat up and retrieved his glasses from the floor, wiping his sleeve over his face to wash off the saliva. “She’s cute,” he answered honestly. He perched his glasses back on his nose and smiled genuinely for the first time in recent memory. He felt his lips crack further and tasted iron on his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “She reminds me a lot of my dog.”

 

“Yes, I remember you saying you had a poodle.” Viktor mused, scratching Makkachin under her chin. “Hand me your coat and the two of you can cuddle while I make tea.”

 

“I can make the tea.” Yuuri dutifully removed his soaking winter garments and handed them over.

 

Viktor folded the coat over his arm and shook his head. “Take this as my apology for abandoning you in the snow.”

 

“You didn’t abandon me.” Yuuri argued, but he settled himself on the couch, anyway. “I chose to come.”

 

“Perhaps, but I feel as though I’m starting out being your coach on the wrong foot. You should be able to rely on me.” The loud clatter of pots and pans clanging together interrupted Yuuri’s reply. Viktor finally located the kettle—shoved in the corner of a lower cabinet—and wiped off the dust with his sleeve.

 

Makkachin jumped on the couch next to Yuuri and rested her head in his lap. Yuuri threaded his fingers through her curly coat, he could feel her breathing under his fingertips and it soothed him. He let his shoulders relax a little, staring at the snow swirling outside the wall length windows as the fire’s gentle warmth dispersed the remnants of cold from his limbs and left them pliant as jelly.

 

“Are you feeling better?” Viktor reentered the room and handed Yuuri a cup of tea.

 

Yuuri nodded gratefully and took a sip. The tea was too weak and somehow still bitter but he schooled his face into a neutral expression. “Yes, thank you.”

 

Viktor smiled and slumped onto the couch next to him. He rested one knee up on the cushions, his leg sprawled so close to Yuuri that his knee grazed his thigh. “I suppose this is as good a time as any to talk. All my shoots have been cancelled for the day so we shouldn’t be interrupted.”

 

Viktor had traded out his heavy winter wear for a loose fitting gray knit sweater. It draped just enough to reveal the graceful sweep of his collarbone and Yuuri had to take another sip of his awful tea to avoid looking at it.

 

“Exercise and diet is easy enough to fix. Grades I can’t necessarily help you with, though I’m sure an increase in your overall health will help clear your mind.” He tapped his temple for emphasis. “But matchmaking— _that_ I know I can do.”

 

“I don’t recall saying I wanted someone to date.” Yuuri traced his thumb over the mug handle.

 

Viktor shrugged and threaded his fingers over his stomach. “Maybe not explicitly. Are you opposed?”

 

“I don’t know I—I haven’t really thought about it.” He admitted. His cheeks felt uncomfortably warm and he wished he had an undershirt on beneath his navy sweater. “But I guess I’m not…not necessarily…opposed.”

 

“Wonderful.” Viktor cheered with a smug smile. “How many people have you dated in the past?”

 

Yuuri jumped a little and Makkachin stirred with a whine. “W-what?”

 

“I need to know your dating experience if I’m going to assess how to proceed.”

 

“Then…none.” Yuuri admitted. He set his mug on the coffee table and refused to make eye contact.

 

Viktor tilted his head. “Hmm?”

 

“None,” Yuuri reiterated. “I haven’t dated.” He drew in a stuttering breath. “Anyone.”

 

Viktor’s eyebrows moved towards his hairline. “But—“

 

Yuuri’s head was bowed towards his knees. “I mostly just spend my time studying and when I was in Japan I helped out with my parent’s business in my spare time.”

 

Viktor nodded knowingly. “Yu-Topia. I remember you mentioning it. A natural hot spring sounds so wonderful, I’d love to visit some time.”

 

Yuuri’s head snapped up, his hair curling at the ends from the fire’s dry heat. “When did I mention that?” He didn’t recall bringing up the business, but perhaps the tea was spiked. That, or Yuuri had finally lost his last thread of sanity. He didn’t know which scenario was least likely.

 

Viktor huffed out a quiet laugh. “In your YouTube videos, of course.”

 

Yuuri’s eyes widened and he felt the world tipping around him. “Just how many have you watched?”

 

Viktor splayed his hand across his forehead. “Why do people keep asking me that? It’s not like you have that many.”

 

Yuuri groaned and dropped his head into his hands. He tried to remember what he might have mentioned in those videos, but the combined effort of time and his frantically whirling mind made it impossible to recall, so he gratefully dropped the activity.

 

Viktor shifted in his seat, finally recognizing Yuuri’s distress. “Do you not want my help? I thought that was why you agreed to meet me.”

 

Yuuri didn’t want to tell him that the main reason he had dragged himself out yesterday and this morning was because he was desperately lonely and desperately depressed. He supposed that much was already obvious, especially if Viktor had watched all of his YouTube videos. “I do, I just—this is a lot to process,” he admitted honestly.

 

“Then we can take it slow.” Viktor placed an elbow on the armrest and straightened his posture. “Why don’t we start by making a schedule to meet?”

 

“I don’t have my class schedule memorized yet,” Yuuri told him, his chin still dipped towards the floor.

 

“No problem,” Viktor assured him. He stood from the couch and padded out of the room without a word of explanation. Yuuri watched him go, his heart thundering in his chest, wondering why he had left. Viktor returned moments later with his phone in one hand and a small black and white tub in the other. Yuuri’s body surged with relief but he tried not to show it.

 

“Here.” Viktor handed him the phone. “Enter your number.”

 

Yuuri complied without argument and handed the phone back.

 

Viktor smiled faintly at the contact screen and hit ‘call.’ “Now we have each others numbers,” he observed when Yuuri’s phone buzzed.

 

Yuuri scrambled for his cell and quickly added Viktor’s number under his name.

 

Viktor rested his own phone on the armrest. “Also, this has been bothering me.” He unscrewed the black lid of what Yuuri surmised to be lip balm and dipped his finger in it. He climbed up on his knees—moving his hand towards Yuuri’s face.

 

Yuuri leaned his body away from Viktor’ finger. “I’m sorry, I—“ Yuuri held his palms in front of his chest—“I can—I’d rather do it myself.”

 

Viktor smiled warmly and Yuuri felt immediately relieved. He handed him the tub and Yuuri skimmed his fingers over the top, holding the container back to Viktor as he spread the balm over his cracked lips.

 

Viktor shook his head. “Keep it.”

 

Yuuri nodded and slid his lips together, encouraging moisture into his dry skin. “Thank you.” He looked up at Viktor, finally meeting his eyes. He quickly turned his gaze back down, overwhelmed by the way Viktor looked at him—like he was an innocent child to be trained and coddled in equal measure. “Well, I guess I should head home before the weather gets much worse.”

 

Viktor folded his legs under him, leaning forward with a hand on Yuuri’s knee. “You should stay.” He fretted. “The weather’s not safe to walk in.”

 

Yuuri shook his head. “I’m pretty good with the cold, actually. And I’m feeling a lot better now.”

 

Viktor’s lips pressed into a slight frown. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t keep Yuuri captive, either. He agreed to let him go, but only after he had loaded him down with layers of scarves and oversized sweaters and a new coat. (“Yours is still soaked through and it’s much too thin to offer you proper insulation, besides!”)

 

“Text me once you have your schedule, okay?” Viktor fastened Yuuri’s coat buttons for him and fluffed up a goldenrod woolen scarf around his neck.

 

“I will, Viktor, I promise.”

 

“And if it starts to get too cold and you’re closer to my apartment than yours, just come back here.”

 

“Okay.” Yuuri suppressed a laugh.

 

“Text me when you get home.”

 

“Sure.” Yuuri waved over his shoulder. Viktor leaned against his doorframe, watching him go with his arms folded over his chest till Yuuri disappeared into the elevator.

 

The journey home was colder than Yuuri expected, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind. He walked through the snow—his chin turned into a scarf—surrounded by Viktor’s scent. He was overcome with a feeling so foreign, he didn’t know how to properly label it. He stopped in his tracks, listening as snowflakes pattered softly against the ground. ‘ _This is happiness_ ,’ he realized, the corner of his mouth quirked into an uncontrollable smile. ‘ _I’m happy_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo lovely darlings. Hope you enjoy the new chapter, I've pretty much dedicated myself to a Sunday uploading schedule, in case anyone is keeping tabs. A full Yuuri chapter, though! Aaah! Next one will be Viktor heavy to even it out. I hope you all enjoy it, as always, I'll be around in the next few days to edit it more thoroughly. My keyboard is baaasically falling apart so letters get dropped pretty often. It's a problem. I try to keep an eye out but things slip by me when I've read my own chapter twenty times. 
> 
> Anyway! Thank you all so so soooo much for your kind comments and kudos. You're all the reason I've got the motivation to write this thing. I hope you're having a wonderful weekend and if you want to yell with me about episode 7 (!!!!!!!!!) come hmu on my tumblr youremarvelous (currently tons of yelling going on over there. TONS). 
> 
> All my love <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> texting key:
> 
> Yuuri  
>  _Viktor_

**Viktor**

 

Viktor sat curled into his couch, sketchbook in his lap, dog at his feet, and a fantastically poetic Borodin composition drifting from his sound system speakers. He sketched out fashion designs—an old hobby he had never fully outgrown—and waited for his phone to sound.

 

The muted scratching of his pencil paired with the soft pattering of snow against the windows and an especially melodic piano movement found him almost drifting off to sleep. When his phone finally buzzed to life, Viktor jumped, nearly dropping his pencil and making Makkachin lift her head with a whine.

 

“Sorry,” he told her, giving her a good scratch under the chin to settle her back down. She snuffled and licked his hand and Viktor picked up his cell to check the message.

 

 (9:44) I’m home. When can I return your things?

 

Viktor was pleased that Yuuri had followed his directions to text him. He smiled to himself as he pulled up the messaging app.

 

(9:45) _In that much of a hurry to see me again, are you?_

  

A few minutes ticked by without a response, so Viktor tapped out another message.

 

(9:53) _Have you located your class schedule?_

 

Again, five minutes passed, then ten, thirty, and finally a full hour without a word of acknowledgement. Viktor wasn’t used to radio silence, most people tripped over their own feet in a scramble for his attention. But Yuuri wasn’t like most people. Viktor supposed that was what had attracted him to the boy in the first place, even if at present it was quite the annoyance. He tried not to be bothered by Yuuri’s response— or lack thereof. He had left him in the snow, after all. Perhaps he could let his pass as Yuuri’s play at retribution.

 

Viktor leaned back in his couch and sighed, arms folded over his chest. He stared out at the falling snow, speculating on possible explanations for Yuuri’s delayed reply. Maybe his phone had died. Maybe he was in the shower. Maybe he had texted while traversing his apartment stairs and—in his distracted state—had tripped and fallen, rendering him alone and unconscious in a cold stairwell.

 

Viktor shook his head, combing his hand through his hair, and flipping his phone over so it was face down on the couch armrest. It wouldn’t do to work himself into a nervous state. Yuuri was a poor communicator. He had already surmised as much from their first encounter as well as the amount of time it had taken for him to receive a response on Youtube.

 

Verbally, Yuuri was withdrawn and quiet and revealed little. Unless, apparently, he thought he was speaking into a void. But if his YouTube channel wasn’t proof enough, Yuuri’s entire demeanor was one of a person who—while scared of emotional intimacy—desperately desired it.

 

Throw a rock into a pond and most people would claim the resultant splash as the proof of its landing. But Yuuri was the ripple—silent, easily ignorable, but endlessly expressive. Yuuri might not be especially generous with his words, but his silence spoke volumes. Darting eyes revealed his insecurities, wringing hands exposed his emotional barriers.

 

These things were easy to ascertain. The knowledge came to Viktor naturally. Unfortunately, it didn’t provide the answers on how to coach Yuuri into letting his guard down, and right now, it didn’t guide him in what actions to take to get the other to respond to him via text message.

 

Viktor sighed—shoulders tensed—and curved one knuckle against his bottom lip. His reflection crackled in staccato patterns on the glass of his freestanding fireplace and he knitted his brows at it, his brain struggling to equate the flame’s distortion of his flickering portrait with the Viktor he had in recent years become most accustomed to: the Viktor that was prodded and polished and preened until all traces of any treacherous, deficient human nature gave way to idealized perfection.

 

That Viktor wasn’t real. He was merely the idea of a person—one created from consumer surveys and executive committees. As a burgeoning model, that disconnect had deeply troubled him, but somewhere along the way it had become difficult to distinguish between Viktor the model and Viktor the person.

 

Viktor squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his head back on his pristine white couch. He barely knew what parts of him remained when he was stripped of his fame and his carefully cultivated image. He didn’t know how he could bring Yuuri to trust him when he couldn’t even trust himself.

 

Viktor didn’t receive a return response by the time he turned in for the night. He was determined not to be hurt by Yuuri’s restraint, but tears ran hot streaks down his cheeks, anyway. He held Makkachin close, his bare skin warmed by her soft, curly coat and the heat of her panting breath.

 

Meeting with Yuuri today and convening with him in his apartment was the impact— the stone meeting water. There had been no auditory proof of its contact, but Viktor had known better than to expect it. He had to have faith in the ripple. He had to believe that Yuuri would take actions, slowly, cautiously, to reach the shore and meet the hand of the thrower.

 

Viktor did believe it. For all the ungainly parts of him that had been bargained off in exchange for success, his boundless, often naïve optimism had somehow remained. And he clung to it now—a lifeline in the dark—with knuckles white and quaking.

 

+

 

(5:30) _Good morning, Yuuri. In regards to the morning run, Makkachin and I have agreed that 18 inches of snow is nature’s way of telling us to skip it for a consecutive day_

 

(5:32) _She’s pre-arthritic, you see_

(5:32) _Makkachin, not nature_

(5:33) _Not as far as I know, anyway_

 

(5:43) _Also, whatever technological apparatus is holding your class schedule hostage, I do hope it surrenders before I begin to believe you’re avoiding me_

 

+

 

Viktor tried to be patient. He tried to wait for the ripple to reach the shore. In the end, he had just decided to do a running cannonball to the center of the metaphorical lake. That was probably more his style, anyway.

 

The city was blanketed in a pristine mask of white and he received a call to inform him that, unsurprisingly, another day of work had been cancelled. Normally, Viktor would try to utilize this precious and rare free time to catch up on chores he had been neglecting, but today he was possessed by a nervous energy that made it impossible to regard any task with his full attention.

 

The pale afternoon light was already giving way to the blue hues of early evening when his phone buzzed to life. Viktor picked up the cell, determined to not be excited. He had already been fooled by a Papa John’s ad and a reminder from Yakov to spend his free time studying high fashion magazines and practicing his posing in the mirror instead of slacking off. He nearly dropped the phone in shock when he realized the text was, in fact, from the current object of his fixation.

 

(17:18) I’m so sorry for the late reply!!! o(〒﹏〒)o My electricity was out once I got home and I turned the phone off to save the battery.

 

(17:18) _Where are you now?_

 

(17:19) Castle Coffee has some free charging stations set up. I’ve been waiting all day for a turn. (￣ ￣|||)

 

(17:19) _Okay, I’ll be there soon._

 

(17:20) ??????

 

(17:20) _I’m coming to pick you up_.

 

Viktor was already half jogging around the apartment to replace his sweatpants with a pair of dark wash jeans when his phone buzzed again. He distractedly picked it up to read while pulling a woolen cranberry sweater over his head.

 

(17:22) !!! That’s! It’s not necessary. I’m just going to charge my laptop and work on classwork at home.

 

(17:23) _Don’t be silly, you can do it at my house where it’s warm._

(17:24) I have blankets

 

(17: 25) _I have electricity._

(17:29) _And a fireplace_

(17:30) _Light. Tons of free outlets to use. A big dog to cuddle._

 

(17:36) _How am I supposed to rest knowing that my student is freezing?_

(17:41) _I’ll be there in 20._

  

Viktor stood hovering in front of his door, his boots on but untied, waiting for a response. Finally, his phone buzzed—his eyes widened, the bright light of the screen glowing against his irises. He read the words quickly—skimming them once and then twice in immediate succession—a satisfied smile working its way onto his face.

  

(17:44) Okay, fine. But don’t come down here. It’s out of your way. I’ll go there

 

(17:45) _See you soon_

+

 

‘Soon’ turned out to be a full hour later. Enough time for Viktor to worry that the conversation had been his mind’s fabrication, and then, upon reading the text for confirmation, to believe that for the first time in his life, he had been stood up.

 

It turned out the universe wasn’t quite so cruel. At least, it came through on its promise to deliver a shivering, plump, pink-faced Asian boy to his apartment. Yuuri bowed slightly when Viktor opened the door for him. He shuffled through the entrance on stiff limbs, a pair of plastic bags rustling on his arm.

 

“I’m not staying long,” Yuuri said as way of greeting.

 

Viktor closed the door behind him and tried not to let his surprise show. He planted a smile on his face and reached for Yuuri’s coat. “Nice to see you, as well.”

 

Yuuri’s chin snapped up, his eyes going wide as if he had only just noticed Viktor’s presence. “S-sorry, I didn’t meant it like that.”

 

Viktor’s smile remained unnaturally unchanged. “I suppose I deserve it. I did basically force you to come here.”

 

“No,” Yuuri shook his head sharply, his glasses skewing off the side of his nose. “No, sorry. I’m just—I have some…things going on.”

 

“Would you care to elaborate?” Yuuri shrugged and Viktor stifled a pout. “Well, that’s fine,” he conceded. “Trust must be gained over time.” He hung Yuuri’s coat and reached for his groceries. “However, if it concerns a girl, I think it’s my responsibility as your personal matchmaker to know.”

 

“N-no,” Yuuri clutched his bags to his chest. “It’s…nothing like that.”

 

“Although, I never did ask your preferred gender, my apologies for assuming. Would you happen to want to clarify your sexuality?”

 

The dusting of pink on Yuuri’s nose and cheeks deepened into a fiery red.

 

“I myself am bisexual, so you have no need to fear judgment.”

 

Yuuri tucked his chin against his chest, his face turning impossibly redder. “I haven’t—“ he sucked in a breath, holding it while he mulled his response around in his head—“I’m not really sure.” He admitted finally, his body deflating under the weight of the confession.

 

Viktor nodded and slid a hand over Yuuri’s shoulders, removing the plastic bags from his loosened grip. “Well, that will make my job a bit more challenging, but rest assured that I will rise to that challenge.” Viktor wasn’t exactly shocked by this revelation, but Yuuri’s faith in revealing such information to him made his heart beat heavy in his chest. He squeezed Yuuri’s shoulder and peeked into the bags. “So what have we here?”

 

Yuuri stiffened and tried to retrieve the bags from Viktor’s hands, but Viktor only laughed and turned away, using his body as a shield.

 

“Ingredients,” Yuuri huffed miserably, dropping his arms to his sides. “I thought I—I thought I could make you dinner. In exchange for, um, every…thing.”

 

“Oh, not to worry, Yuuri, I’ll bill you later.”

 

Yuuri blanched and Viktor laughed, tousling his hair before striding to the kitchen. “Of course, I’m only kidding. I _will_ be depending on your positive endorsement for future marketing, however.”

 

“S-sure.” Yuuri agreed, toeing off his shoes at the door before following after Viktor.

 

Makkachin bounded into the room and jumped on Yuuri’s chest, nosing wet kisses onto his cheeks. Yuuri giggled and gently encouraged her back on all fours, patting her head and quietly inquiring about her day. Viktor watched fondly from the kitchen, unloading groceries on the counter.

 

“Feel free to use any cooking ware you need.” Viktor told him, indicating the bottom cupboards that housed his pots and pans. “So—“ he wheeled around to the other side of the bar and hoisted himself onto a stool—“what are we having?”

 

Yuuri padded into the kitchen—Makkachin on his heels—and picked up a tupperware container. He peeled back the lid and sniffed the contents. “I had leftover tonkatsu and it would’ve gone bad since the electricity went out, so…I thought I’d make katsudon—err—pork cutlet bowl,” he corrected. “I hope you don’t mind.”

 

Viktor hummed, pressing a finger to his mouth. “I’ve seen you make this before. On your YouTube?”

 

“Y-yeah,” Yuuri affirmed, eyes searching the stovetop till he spotted the controls and flicked the back burner to high. “It’s my favorite.”

 

Viktor tilted his head with a smile. “Then I’m happy to eat it.” He patted the counter and stood. “Shall we listen to music while you cook?”

 

Yuuri glanced up from slicing onions and gave a hesitant nod.

 

Viktor had already moved to the living room to sift through his records. He furrowed his brows in concentration as he searched for just the right accompaniment to an evening of cooking and company. In the end, he decided on Chopin, op 10. no. 10 in A-flat major. The whirling, jaunty notes drifted through the apartment and Yuuri hummed along absentmindedly, pouring oil into the preheated pan.

 

“You’re a fan of classical music?” Viktor sat on a bar stool and leaned his elbows on the marble counter, smiling while he watched Yuuri work.

 

Yuuri nodded lightly, pushing browning onions around the pan. “I used to—“ he paused, tightening his lips together as though unsure if he wanted to continue—“I used to take ballet. The instructor would have us dance to a lot of French and Russian composers, and my interest kind of grew from there.”

 

Viktor’s eyes widened and he lifted his head. “Ballet? Really?”

 

Yuuri met Viktor’s eyes momentarily before quickly looking back down at his sizzling pan—a warm blush blooming across his cheeks. “The instructor was a friend of the family and she needed male dancers to even out her class.”

 

Viktor nodded, his mind whirling with this new information. It all made sense now—Yuuri’s graceful movements that seemed to belie his social awkwardness, his expressive body language—even his posture indicated a person that had honed his physicality through years of study. This was wonderful news, and it was something Viktor could use in his favor.

 

“Would you dance for me, Yuuri?”

 

Yuuri nearly dropped an egg, but managed to recover it with an arm swiped across his forehead. “Wha—no!” He cracked the egg on the edge of the pan and poured it over the sizzling onions with one hand. “I don’t—it’s been 5 years. I don’t think I can anymore.”

 

“Don’t be silly,” Viktor pressed, his glossy lips pulling into a mischievous smile. “We’ll get you back into shape and then you can perform for me, yes?”

 

Yuuri responded with a low groan and Viktor suppressed a giggle.  

 

Viktor mimed waltzing through the kitchen with his hands in the air, his arm wrapped around an invisible partner. He bumped Yuuri playfully in the side, winking as he made his way around him for a bottle of wine. He poured two glasses of red without asking, bringing the bottle back with him and dropping off a glass at Yuuri’s elbow.

 

To his surprise, Yuuri took it without argument, lifting the drink in his free hand and taking a sip. He hummed appreciatively and Viktor gently swirled the wine before hovering his nose near the lip of the glass to sample the bouquet. He had never been particularly apt at assessing quality, but the aesthetics of the wine tasting performance delighted him.

 

“It was a gift from a client,” Viktor specified, finally taking a sip.

 

“It’s good,” Yuuri placed his drink down. “Are you sure you don’t mind sharing this with me?”

 

Viktor waved him off. “Nice wine is meant to be shared.”

 

Yuuri looked like he wanted to comment, but he bit his bottom lip and turned his eyes back to his pan.

 

The rest of the cooking process was spent in a companionable silence. Viktor couldn’t recall being quite so comfortable in recent memory—his body lulled by the influences of music and wine, watching as Yuuri navigated the kitchen as if he had been there for years and not just the evening.

 

Viktor was in such a trance, it took him an embarrassingly long time to notice when Yuuri had already plated the food and was standing, watching Viktor for further instruction.

 

Viktor slid off his stool and held up a finger. “Sorry, one moment!”

 

Yuuri lifted the steaming bowls and Viktor scrambled to clean off the dining table, worried that Yuuri might burn his fingers on the hot ceramic.

 

Viktor reached to retrieve his sketchbook and Yuuri leaned in curiously. “Hmm, what’s that?”

 

“Just something I do for fun,” Viktor dismissed him, tossing the book to the side and hurrying to the kitchen for the wineglasses.

 

“Really? But they were so good.” Yuuri placed the bowls on the table, returning to the kitchen for utensils. “I mean, I don’t know much about fashion design, but—“

 

“It’s irrelevant,” Viktor interrupted, refilling Yuuri’s glass without asking.

 

Yuuri’s eyebrows were furrowed when he returned. He handed Viktor a fork, his features etched with the words he wanted to say, but was unable to muster the courage to voice.

 

Viktor could see it plainly. It was his duty as a life coach to comment on Yuuri’s reticence, but he knew the matter concerned him, so he wasn’t eager to interrogate. Even so, the guilt stirred in his stomach when he took his first bite of food.    

 

The crisp breading and oily pork exploded across his palate and washed away any ill feelings. “Tasty!” He shouted happily, holding his palm to his blushing cheek as he chewed.

 

“Is it?” Yuuri squirmed in his seat, the steam of the bowl warming his face.

 

Viktor nodded, quickly shoving food into his mouth. “So delicious, Yuuri. You could open a restaurant.”

 

Yuuri chuckled a little at that and finally took a bite of his own food.

 

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind. You won’t have time to open a restaurant because you’re going to be having dinner with me every night.”

 

Yuuri dropped his fork and it clattered loudly to the floor. “W-what!?”

 

Viktor swiped a piece of rice stuck to his chin and popped it in his mouth. “It’s perfect! It shouldn’t interfere with either of our schedules, and now neither of us will have to eat alone.”

 

Yuuri balled his fingers into his thighs. “I—I don’t really mind…eating alone.”

 

Viktor placed a finger to his mouth and tilted his head. “Really? Because if memory serves you stated otherwise in your mukb—“

 

Yuuri groaned loudly and shook his head. “I’m deleting those when I get home.”

 

Viktor huffed out a laugh. “Be that as it may, you can’t argue this is a good plan.”

 

“But—but I—“

 

“Valentine’s Day is soon approaching,” Viktor continued. “We should be able to find you a date by then. Won’t you feel better prepared if you’ve had practice at dinner conversation?”

 

Yuuri heaved a sigh, looking much more world-weary than his 23 years would suggest. “I guess,” he conceded miserably.

 

“Then it’s decided,” Viktor beamed, unabashedly happy to have gotten his way. “It’s too bad you don’t live on this side of town, though. Would you consider moving in with me?”

 

Yuuri sputtered out a cough, his eyes so wide they looked ready to pop out of his head.

 

Viktor chuckled and waved him off. “Fine, fine.” He took another sip of wine. “We’ll work on it.”

 

+

 

Viktor woke in the night, disoriented and with a pounding headache. His mind worked to orient itself and he realized he was in the living room—lying on the fluffy faux fur rug—his head still dizzy with wine. He sat up on his elbows and a thick blanket pooled in his lap, revealing his bare chest to the cold evening air. He knitted his eyebrows together and lifted the blanket, unsurprised to find that he was, in fact, completely nude. He ran a hand through his silver hair, reaching for a glass of water placed on the floor conveniently near his head.

 

His memory of the evening returned in flashes—stuttering and disjointed as though projected from an old film reel. He remembered finishing off the bottle of wine and opening a new one. He recalled singing along to Italian operas, climbing atop the coffee table in a fit of dramatics and then being helped down from it by a blushing Yuuri, before finally digging through his alcohol cabinet for something stronger and trying to coerce Yuuri into recreating the onsen experience by sharing a hot bath with him. There might have also been an incident of crying over his receding hairline, but he closed his eyes and shook his head. Some drunken events were meant to be forgotten.

 

‘ _Yuuri_ ,’ his mind supplied as sobriety returned. He whipped his head around searching for the boy. He was almost certain he would’ve taken his chance to run as soon as Viktor had knocked out from high levels of inebriation, but instead Viktor found him sleeping only a couple of feet away—passed out on the couch with Makkachin curled on his legs. One of Yuuri’s arms hung limply off the side—his knuckles grazing the floor—and a glistening trail of drool carved a path down his cheek. His glasses were drooping sideways on his nose and Viktor wondered if it would be crossing the line to remove them.

 

It was nice to see the boy’s face like this—peaceful and unguarded and bathed in pale moonlight. He really was quite beautiful, though his appeal wasn’t as immediately recognizable as Viktor’s. It was a quiet beauty. It snuck up on one unexpectedly in the depths of his round, syrup sweet eyes and the warmth of his blushing smiles.  

 

Viktor wanted to move Yuuri to the bed, but he knew there was no way of doing so without waking him. It was too late and Viktor was too drained to spend any amount of time on an argument about sleeping arrangements with the willful boy, so he grabbed up the blanket in his lap and wrapped it around himself, picking up the now-empty glass for a refill before moving quietly to the bedroom. The streetlights cast pools of golden light into his apartment and Viktor followed them to his room. He rummaged through his dresser drawers in the dark, changing into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt before pulling the comforter from the bed and carrying it back to the living room.

 

Makkachin stirred when she saw him. She raised her head with a huge yawn before slowly moving off the couch to join her owner’s side. Viktor hoisted the comforter over his shoulder and patted her head, showering her with quiet ministrations till she grew bored of him and left to curl up in her own plush dog bed.

 

Viktor watched her go, a fond smile on his lips, before traversing the rest of the way to the couch. He lowered the comforter over Yuuri’s body, gently tucking in the sides, careful not to wake the boy. Yuuri hummed quietly in his sleep and nuzzled down contentedly into the warming blanket. Viktor waited to make sure Yuuri didn’t rouse to consciousness before carefully removing his glasses and folding them on a side table.

 

It was the first time Viktor had seen Yuuri without them. Somehow, he looked even younger than before—his short eyelashes splayed against his round cheeks and his features unmarred by the tension of the waking world. Viktor felt an overwhelming surge of affection and he leaned down to place a kiss on Yuuri’s temple. He stopped himself before his lips made contact and stood there frozen and blinking hard, his mouth hovering inches from the soft skin.

 

He was unsure of what had come over him. Yuuri was his student. He felt affection for him, yes, but not of the romantic kind. Still, he desired to be near him. He wished to spend time with him—to bear witness to his hidden depths—to see him happy.

 

Viktor was too tired to examine what this meant. He would have to ask Yakov if it was a common emotion to have towards one’s student. For now, he curled back up on the rug, pillowing his biceps under his head and staring at the high ceilings. The winter wind blew angrily against his windows, but Viktor was oblivious. He closed his eyes and sank into unconsciousness—his mind lulled to sleep by the gentle whistling of Yuuri’s breath and Makkachin’s soft snores—feeling safe, and contented, and warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck. I love Viktor. Send help.
> 
> So here’s the full Viktor chapter for you to even out last week. Viktor is a bit harder to write for me—he tends to be kinda purple with his language. I tried to reflect that but my normal writing style is more straightforward so I’m not sure if it really worked out…but, well, I made an attempt. 
> 
> This fic has gotten so domestic! Honestly, this is why I didn’t want to post a chapter count because last chapter, this chapter, and next week’s chapter were all supposed to be one. =_=;;;; I’m sacrificing word count in order to have faster updates, though, and I hope you’re all okay with that. 
> 
> As always, huge hugs to all of you for your support. It means soooooo much to me. 
> 
> And in bw writing this and trying to convince my gf I really do love her more than this show, I am posting nonstop meta and theories and etc. about yoi over on my tumblr so if you wanna come chat with me, please hmu at my tumblr youremarvelous. Thanks loves!


	5. Chapter 5

**Yuuri**

 

Yuuri roused to consciousness slowly. His brain felt stuffed with cotton and he was unbearably warm. A film of sweat dampened his forehead, but when he tried to wipe it, he found that his limbs were heavy and immovable—weighted to the bed by an unseen force.

 

The brittle morning light pressed insistently against his eyelids and a surge of adrenaline washed through his body, waking him fully. He snapped his eyes open, trying to orient himself to the unfamiliar surroundings and the source of his immobility. Memory returned blessedly quickly. He was at Viktor’s, having stayed the night for fear of what the man would do to himself in his drunken state. Those wall length windows were great for natural lighting, but were impossibly dangerous when paired with a drunkard with a penchant for climbing on (and subsequently falling from) high surfaces.

 

A hand clenched into the front of Yuuri’s shirt and for the first time he noticed the series of soft, steady breaths breezing against his nape. That solved the mystery of his weighted limbs, then. Yuuri craned his neck to assess the extent of their entanglement, relieved to see that Viktor had at least found his way into some clothes during the night. He felt bad waking the older man, but he hadn’t set an alarm the night before and his bladder felt uncomfortably full—compressed below Viktor’s weight as he was.

 

“Viktor,” Yuuri whispered, squirming beneath his full body embrace. “Viktor, it’s morning.”

 

Makkachin woke from some unseen location. Yuuri could hear her nails clacking across the floor, coming to beg her owner for breakfast.

 

“Hi, girl,” Yuuri greeted quietly. He tried to free a hand to pet her, but she grew impatient from his struggle and reared back with a loud bark. The noise made Yuuri jump and echoed shrilly in his ears, but it seemed to be successful in waking Viktor. The older man inhaled sharply and squeezed his fingers further into Yuuri’s shirt, pulling the boy more tightly to him before releasing him completely.

 

“Okay, okay,” Viktor mumbled sleepily, pushing himself up with a hand on either side of Yuuri’s torso. Makkachin hopped around excitedly at the prospect of her impending meal and Viktor sat back on his heels, rubbing his hands over his face.

 

“Um, Viktor…do you think you could maybe, ah—“

 

“Just a second, Makkachin. Daddy’s tired—“ Viktor paused. Dogs didn’t talk. He pulled his hands from his face, blinking down at his bedmate. “Yuuri,” he exhaled, scrambling from the couch to release Yuuri’s legs. “I’m sorry, I…tend to get clingy when I’m drunk. Are you fine?”

 

Yuuri sat up and stretched his back, wincing at the loud pops that emanated from his stiff joints. “I’m okay,” he grunted. He squinted at Viktor and then blinked, touching his face near his temple. “Uh, my glasses—“

 

“Oh—“ Viktor leaned over him, his shoulder almost grazing Yuuri’s cheek. “Here you are,” he smiled warmly, unfolding the glasses and sliding them onto Yuuri’s face.

 

Yuuri recoiled out of habit and pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Th-thank you,” he gasped, nose scrunching from the proximity of Viktor’s noxious morning breath.

 

Viktor hovered a hand over Yuuri’s head as if to ruffle his hair with it but pulled back at the last second, patting him on the shoulder, instead. He strode to the kitchen to feed his dog—Makkachin hot on his heels—and Yuuri sat up on his knees, leaning his stomach against the back of the couch to watch them.

 

Yuuri rested his head in his folded arms, chuckling a little as Makkachin danced impatiently around Viktor’s feet. Yuuri could vividly remember Vicchan doing the same. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d almost been brained on the counter from tripping over the overexcited poodle. He had never been a morning person before adopting him, but over time, waking up at the crack of dawn to avoid the rude awakening of a dog jumping on his stomach—dangerously close to his groin—had become habit, and setting an alarm was more for appearances than anything.

 

Yuuri’s eyes doubled in size, realization squeezing his lungs. He scrambled to his feet with an audible gasp, the sudden change of position making black spots dance in the periphery of his newly sharpened vision. “I’m sorry,” he told Viktor, gripping the couch armrest to keep from toppling over. “I didn’t set an alarm—“

 

Viktor was unconcerned. “It’s okay,” He waved Yuuri off, scratching Makkachin’s head as she happily devoured her breakfast. “It’s Saturday.”

 

“O-oh.” Yuuri plopped back down on the couch. “But—“ He continued, quietly enough so as not to be heard. He suspected models didn’t work a standard schedule and that weekends would hold little to no significance to them. Viktor was famous in the industry, though, so perhaps he had enough clout to determine his own schedule. That, or he simply had no bookings that day and didn’t feel the need to elaborate.

 

Viktor hadn’t explained. He had probably determined that the minutiae of his daily schedule held little to no importance to Yuuri. And certainly, he wasn’t wrong, but the assumption niggled at Yuuri like an unreachable itch in the back of his throat.

 

Viktor reentered the living room from the kitchen. His bare feet were silent against the concrete floors and his sudden presence made Yuuri jerk in surprise. The other didn’t seem to notice. He walked to one of the tall windows and peered down, his warm, stale-wine breath fogging the glass.

 

“Looks like they’ve finally plowed the streets.” Viktor swiveled his head to Yuuri, his fingertips hovering just over the pane and his hair glittering in the brightening morning light. “Since you’re here already, why don’t we go for a run?”

 

+

 

**Viktor**

 

“I thought…you said…we were going…on a run.” Yuuri huffed, struggling to keep up with Viktor’s bike. The pathways might have been plowed, but the bitter January chill remained, and every panting breath was a visible reminder of just how out of shape he had become since moving to America.

 

“Yes,” Viktor turned, beaming a toothy smile at his red-cheeked protégé. “You’re running, aren’t you?”

 

Yuuri didn’t respond. He probably didn’t have the breath to, and Viktor didn’t mind. He was still too delighted by Yuuri’s acquiescence to the task. When he had first pulled his bike from storage, he had expected a healthy debate at best and vehement refusal at worst. Instead, Yuuri had heaved a weary sigh, rolled his shoulders, and bent down to tighten his shoelaces.

 

Viktor watched on with raised eyebrows, touching a finger to his mouth in poorly suppressed excitement. He started them out slow, pedaling just fast enough to keep the bike upright. Yuuri seemed to handle it fine, so Viktor increased his speed, whizzing down the park pathways just fast enough for the cold air to sting his cheeks and ruffle the short hair around his ears.

 

To his surprise, Yuuri didn’t complain about the pace. To his further surprise, he was able to keep up. Sure, he was panting and sweating and red in the face, but his endurance was impressive and his proper running form exposed his experience.

 

The bike wheels crunched noisily across cracking asphalt and salty ice patches and the wintry landscape whirred by in smears of glittering white and blue. They were barely going 10 mph but Viktor’s heart was soaring, beating insistently against his ribcage from excitement rather than exertion.

 

It didn’t make sense for him to feel this way. He had encountered some of the world’s most eclectic personalities and brilliant minds throughout his career, but to his memory, no one had interested him to the same degree as this seemingly generic Asian boy. And why: because he could keep up with a bike?

 

It was absurd. Viktor’s excitement was beyond reason, it mounted out of proportion with his body. He wondered what Mila would think if she saw him now, dragging along Yuuri like an obedient dog on an invisible leash. Her concern wasn’t unfounded, Viktor’s attempts to reignite his waning inspiration had been abundant and varied, but they had never before involved an outside participant—willing as he might be.

 

Viktor believed in himself and he believed in his intentions, but Yuuri’s feelings were an unknown variable he had yet to really grapple with. It was essential that he get to know the boy as soon as possible. He needed to grasp the underlying meaning behind Yuuri’s resolutions so their goals could coalesce and he could better understand how to coach him.

 

Viktor spotted the sap-stained park bench that he had mentally demarcated as the end of the bike path loop and whipped his head to signal Yuuri to stop. To his surprise, Yuuri had fallen several yards behind—his borrowed windbreaker wrapped around his waist and his posture tilted forward—rubber soles slapping the ground as Yuuri struggled to keep time with Viktor’s ever increasing speed.

 

Viktor pedaled back and slowed into a skid, sliding off the saddle seat and digging his heels into the ground to stop. “Sorry, Yuuri,” he apologized once the boy had caught up. “I’m not used to pacing myself with someone else.”

 

Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to speak just then. He was busy heaving in breaths, too exhausted to respond. He hunched forward, his hands on his knees, the sweat from his temples dripping down the slope of his jaw and melting the thin dusting of crystalizing snow below him in simulated constellations.

 

Viktor rubbed his back, unbothered by the sweat that dampened it. “I’ll go get you some water, okay?”

 

Yuuri only nodded, pulling off his glasses and wiping his forehead with his bicep. The action was largely counterproductive since his arm was perspiring just as heavily as his forehead, but there was no way he was using Viktor’s expensive windbreaker as a sweat rag. He hobbled to the nearby bench on locked knees and dropped unceremoniously to the wooden seat below.

 

His lungs were lead weights in his chest and he coughed into the crook of his elbow to try to loosen them. The sweat was starting to dry from the unceasing wind and a vicious shiver crawled up his back, dispersing the molten, throbbing body heat that had pooled in his fingers and toes from overexertion.

 

Yuuri hugged his arms to his chest, locking his jaw so his teeth wouldn’t clatter together. He wanted to put Viktor’s jacket back on, but doing so would defeat the purpose of having removed it in the first place. Because borrowing clothes from the man was one thing, but staining the pits with his sweat was a humiliation he’d rather not weather.

 

Yuuri was still waging a mental war by the time Viktor returned with a water bottle. The wind continued to blow frigidly around him, but the appeal of hydration was enough to distract him from the state of his progressively freezing limbs for the moment. Yuuri took the drink gratefully, cracking open the seal and gulping heartily.

 

Viktor laughed lightly at the uncharacteristically unguarded action. “You could’ve called for me to slow down,” he chuckled. He sat on the bench and leaned his forearms on his thighs, watching as Yuuri drained the quickly emptying bottle.

 

Yuuri recapped the lid and shook his head. “No,” he gasped, filling his softening lungs with precious air. “No, it’s okay. It was kind of nice, actually.” He’d been panting too hard to consider wasting oxygen on yelling, anyway, but if Viktor had already realized his mistake, it hardly merited mentioning.

 

Another chill wracked its way up Yuuri’s frame and he struggled to contain it. His shoulders quaked despite his efforts and Viktor seemed to finally notice his predicament. He reached over Yuuri’s thigh and pulled on a jacket sleeve, unraveling the loose knot beneath his stomach and freeing the windbreaker from where it bunched uselessly around Yuuri’s hips.

 

The action hadn’t seemed overly intimate to Viktor—at least, it was no more invasive than when a photographer chose to physically adjust his poses rather than lead by verbal command alone. Still, Yuuri’s stiff back and red cheeks seemed more likely caused by embarrassment than the cold if Viktor’s limited observation of the boy was anything to go by.

 

He glanced down at the jacket in his hand. He had intended to drape it over Yuuri’s shoulders, but he held it out to him, instead. “Wear it, it’s cold.” He insisted, pushing the garment into Yuuri’s hands.

 

Yuuri hesitated to do as instructed and Viktor couldn’t fathom why. He wondered if Yuuri was self-conscious that the sleeves trailed several inches past his fingers, or maybe the jacket had been forgotten from the wash somehow and smelled. Viktor almost asked for it back to confirm the latter was not the case, but he was interrupted by the familiar sound of a camera shutter.

 

Yuuri paused in inserting his arm into the windbreaker sleeve and snapped his head up, glancing around frantically for the source of the sound. There was a group of teenage girls nearby, peering over their phones and giggling conspiratorially.

 

The jacket started to slip from Yuuri’s shoulder and Viktor reached over and pulled it the rest of the way up. “It’s okay, Yuuri,” he assured, completely forgetting his resolve to move—both figuratively and literally—at Yuuri’s pace. He zipped the jacket up for him, picking up the half-full water bottle from the bench with one hand and hoisting the bike upright with the other. “Come, why don’t we head back.”

 

Viktor waved at the girls as they left the park and Yuuri peered up from his glasses, watching him. “Does that happen a lot?”

 

Viktor’s shoulders relaxed and he worked a smile on his face to ease him. “No, not often. Most locals are accustomed to celebrity sightings.” He steered his bike down the well-worn sidewalks, holding it by the handlebars.

 

The novelty of his fame had long diminished—candid photos barely even registered a blip on his invasive behaviors radar anymore. It was all just background noise to his daily life—an unspoken addendum to having a highly visible occupation. Viktor handed the water bottle back to Yuuri, huffing fondly when the boy immediately opened it and took a long sip. “Don’t you ever get recognized from your YouTube channel?”

 

Yuuri sputtered on his water. He pulled the drink from his mouth and angled his head up, shivering as spilled drops trailed from the corners of his mouth, down his neck. “No,” he shook his head, wiping his mouth on his wrist. “I think you’re the only one who’s ever sat through those.” Yuuri laughed shyly.

 

“Is that so?” Viktor hummed, touching a knuckle to his chin. “But I really do enjoy your videos. Perhaps if you actually tagged—“

 

“It’s okay,” Yuuri interrupted, cracking the water bottle between his fingertips. “I don’t really—I don’t make them to be watched.”

 

Viktor didn’t believe him. Rather, he didn’t think Yuuri was being truthful with himself. “Isn’t that counterproductive to the posting process?”

 

Yuuri looked up at Viktor, a silent question posed in the crease of his brows.

 

“Why post them if you don’t intend them to be watched.” Viktor clarified.

 

Yuuri sighed wearily and didn’t respond. They walked in a companionable silence, squinting against the blinding beams of the east rising sun. Viktor decided not to press Yuuri about this particular matter for now. It was more an underlying symptom than an immediate concern, and he had time to impress upon Yuuri the importance of using all available tools to practice opening himself up to others.

 

He was okay with sowing the seed for later harvest, when he knew Yuuri better. Viktor was often impulsive and easily excitable, but he wasn’t impatient.

 

“So when does school start?”

 

Yuuri groaned at the reminder and Viktor dipped his chin down, chuckling at his dramatics. “My first class is on Tuesday.”

 

Viktor nodded his understanding. “I’m sure it’d be hard on you to come to this side of town twice daily, so why don’t you resume your work-outs on your own and we can meet every weekday evening for dinner. Does that seem manageable?”

 

Yuuri inhaled sharply and looked up at him, nodding.

 

“And of course, just text me if you can’t meet for some reason. I understand it’s your last semester so you might have pressing obligations.”

 

“Mm,” Yuuri hummed in response. His lungs felt tight again, but it wasn’t accompanied by the dizzying flood of endorphins from having stirred his slowly atrophying muscles back into the familiar rhythm of physical activity. He rubbed his chest with his palm, as if the action would dispel the fear mounting there.

 

Viktor observed the action but didn’t comment. “And I’m happy to call with morning affirmations if you need motivation to stick with your runs.”

 

Yuuri waved his hands frantically in front of his chest. “Th-that won’t be necessary!”

 

Viktor gave a sideways smile and squeezed his shoulder. “Let me help you, Yuuri. This is my responsibility as your coach.”

 

“But—“ Yuuri licked his lips and swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing. “Uh. Actually…I was thinking maybe—“

 

“Hm?” Viktor raised an eyebrow, waiting for Yuuri to gain the courage to finish his statement.

 

“Well, I’m—last night,” Yuuri curled his fingers into fists and sucked in a deep breath, steeling himself against his nerves. “I’m thinking about joining a dance class.” He finally managed, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of his admission.

 

Viktor stopped abruptly, his whole face brightening behind a wide, excited smile. He whipped his head to Yuuri, eyes round and shining. “Really!?”

 

“N-nothing serious,” Yuuri was quick to amend. “And I don’t even know if there’s anything that can fit in my schedule, but—“

 

Viktor’s lips slid into a knowing smile and he tilted his head—a picture of pride. “I think that’s wonderful, Yuuri. My only regret is that I wish I’d thought of it.”

 

Yuuri opened his mouth and then closed it. He curled his toes in his shoes, stirring the muddled thoughts in his head. He wanted to tell Viktor that he was the sole catalyst for Yuuri’s managing to amass the mental strength to even consider venturing outside the ever narrowing, carefully constructed boundaries of his comfort zone. That—while his family had always been supportive of all his life decisions—it was Viktor’s unabashed faith in his ability to push past his self-imposed obstacles that provided him with the strength and motivation to actually attempt to do so.

 

He couldn’t say those things, though—at least, not yet. He wished that surmounting his mental barriers were as easy as chasing after Viktor on his bike.

 

“So, Yuuri,” Viktor started to walk again, the bike’s rubber tread crunching across puddles of melting snow. “You’ll let me come to your practice, right?”

 

Yuuri scrambled to catch up, shaking his head vigorously as a litany of “no’s” flew from his lips in tune with the sound of Viktor’s raucous laughter.

 

+

 

**Viktor**

 

“What are you so happy about?” Mila whispered. Viktor had been humming contentedly to himself ever since Yuri’s photo shoot had started and his excessive cheerfulness was beginning to grate on her nerves. “Did you enjoy your snow days?”

 

Viktor gave a sly smile and shrugged. “You could say that.”

 

Mila rolled her eyes, shooting Yuri a quick thumbs up to show him she was paying attention. “Just tell me what happened, I know you’re dying to.”

 

Viktor tapped his forefinger on his chin. “Mm let’s just say I made contact.”

 

Mila furrowed her eyebrows together in thought, then gasped—eyes wide. “You don’t mean—“

 

“Oi!” Yuri interrupted the pair, throwing up a hand to stop the photographer. “If you two are just gonna chit chat, get the hell out of here!”

 

“You have my full attention,” Viktor folded his arms with a cool smile. “You need to be more aware of your role in the photoshoot. Your expression is—“

 

“Who cares as long as the poses are good?” Yuri rolled his eyes and motioned for the photographer to start again.

 

Viktor sighed and shook his head.

 

“So,” Mila crossed her legs and leaned towards Viktor’s shoulder. “Have you had your ear to the rumor mill lately?”

 

“You know I rely on you for all the workplace gossip.” He returned with a wink.

 

Mila smiled smugly and pinched his side, barely suppressing a laugh when Viktor jumped—scraping his metal chair legs cross the linoleum floors and provoking a murderous glare from Yuri. They both waved in apology, observing dutifully until the shoot had ended.

 

“Anyway,” Mila continued, glancing over to where Yakov was giving Yuri another lecture. She pitched her voice low. “You know Lilia Baranovskaya?”

 

“Lilly Baranovskaya, the famous designer who also happens to be Yakov’s girlfriend?”

 

“ _Ex_ girlfriend,” Mila corrected. “And keep your voice down.”

 

“Ah, so they’ve broken up this week.” Viktor observed.

 

“Yes, well, seems that Yakov is a ‘geriatric old hack who can’t appreciate true art.’”

 

Viktor whistled. “She has always had a way with words.”

 

Mila nodded in agreement. “It sounded like a truly nasty affair.”

 

“Which I’m sure was the source of the argument to begin with.”

 

“Touché.”

 

Viktor shifted in his seat, turning his eyes to the ceiling. “And as interesting as that story was, why do I get the overwhelming sense that you have an ulterior motive for telling me about it.” He glanced back at Mila.

 

Mila rested the back of her hand to her temple, dipping her head back in a dramatic display. “He knows me.” She fake swooned.

 

Viktor exhaled a laugh. “For better or for worse, I do.”

 

“Well,” Mila inhaled deeply, “she has since dropped out as the headlining designer for our agency's end-of-the-year runway event.”

 

“Point being?” Viktor prompted.

 

" _Point being_ that she was the main draw for the show. Now, not only are they short a designer, but they have to figure out how to keep the interest of the sponsors." 

 

Viktor shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm still not understanding what this has to do with me."

 

“Really, Viktor, don’t play dumb. It might work on your clients, but it sure as hell won’t work on me. You know everyone would beat down our doors to see the first clothing line from former top model Viktor Nikiforov. The headlines write themselves.”

 

Viktor shrugged a shoulder, flicking a piece of nonexistent lint from his pants leg. “We’ve talked about this. Designing clothes doesn’t interest me.”

 

“And as _I’ve_ said a million times, I don’t believe you. I’ve seen the sketchbooks, remember?”

 

Viktor shook his head. “It’s a hobby.”

 

“Viktor,” Mila scooted towards him and placed a hand on his knee. “Weren’t you the one going on about occupational longevity just last week? You walk around with a fake smile— _yes_ , don’t give me that look, _I notice_ —talking like the world is falling in around you and your career is moments away from ending. You’re the most in demand model in our agency, your face is plastered on nearly every corner of this damn city. I can’t even get my after dinner Mister Softee without having my eyes assaulted by one of your fucking underwear ads, do you know how aggravating that is for me?” Mila threw her arms in the air, her chest heaving. “And then—” she pointed at Viktor—“I come here today to hear Yakov raving to Celestino about how you keep refusing to book any jobs.“

 

Viktor sighed and turned his eyes to the ceiling. “I’m busy with Yuuri—“

 

“And that’s another thing,” Mila wagged her finger at him. “You’re messing with this kid’s life—“

 

“He’s 23. Not a child, Mila.”

 

“Regardless, why is meeting _him_ fate? Why are you willing to take up being a _life coach_ of all things—something, mind, you know _nothing about_ , but when it comes to a chance for career advancement in the industry you have dedicated half your life to…that’s what? A nuisance? A fluke? What is it, Viktor? What’s the difference between Yuuri and this?”

 

Viktor combed his hand through his hair, eyes pinched together in thought. “The fashion industry doesn’t inspire me anymore.”

 

“So _make_ it inspire you!” Mila fumed. “Don’t throw everything away just because you’re having a fucking midlife crisis, Viktor!” She flopped back in her seat, exhausted.

 

“You done?”

 

“Nnnngh,” Mila groaned, massaging her temples.

 

“You know—“ Viktor patted her back—“this is closer to a quarter life crisis, really.” Viktor laughed lightly when Mila straightened up long enough to slap him on the leg. “Not to change the subject of this obviously important conversation, but do you think you could come over for dinner some time?”

 

“You’re not hooking me up with YouTube boy.” Mila replied flatly, pinching the bridge of her nose.

 

“I would never.” Viktor pressed a hand to his chest. “You’re much too aggressive, you’d terrify him.”

 

“Then I hope he rubs off on you.” Mila grumbled, tilting her chin to the ceiling. “Look—” she straightened up after a while, locking eyes with Viktor—“let’s compromise. You talk to Celestino about the designer spot and I’ll play dating practice dummy.” She stood and cocked her hip, holding her hand out to shake. “Do we have a deal?”

 

Viktor pinched his lips into a line. He didn’t want to bother wasting his time conceiving ideas that would probably never reach fruition. Especially when he wasn’t even certain he’d be happy if they did. But Mila was one of his closest friends and he trusted her most in interacting with his anxious student. It was his duty as Yuuri’s coach to prioritize his student’s progress, and anyway, at least agreeing would get Mila out of his hair for a while.

 

“Fine.” Viktor sighed wearily and took her hand in his own. “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Viktor and your sensitive artist’s heart. You’re gonna give poor Mila an ulcer. She doesn’t deserve this. I guess it’s not super essential to point this out, but Mila is aged up in this fic—around 22. I don’t know if it will ever come up in the text, so I’m mentioning it here. 
> 
> The plot is finally starting to kick off! Which makes me excited because from now on Yuuri's and Viktor's interactions are going to get progressively more familiar which is suuuper fun to write. 
> 
> Okay, so, here's the dealio. Next Friday my girlfriend and I are going out of town for our Christmas holiday and then the weekend after that we'll be traveling to visit my family. I am going to try super hard to get a chapter out both weeks, but heads up that it might not happen. Life obligations and all that, if worst comes to worst and I can't update both weeks, I will still update but it will only be once and unfortunately I can't predict the date but it won't be Sunday. After that, I'll be back on my regular Sunday uploading schedule. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, I really will try my absolute best to update both weeks, but I just wanted to warn people: I'm not going on hiatus, people just like to see my face around the holidays for some reason. 
> 
> As always, thank you all so much for your comments and kudos. I'm sorry I don't respond to everyone but every comment means the world to me and you are all the best for taking the time to leave them. Tons of episode discussion, observations and theorizing about yoi going on on my tumblr youremarvelous if you want to join in on the fun. Thanks loves!


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